Precious Things
by Mikkeneko
Summary: Searching for a cure for Ed's blindness, the Elric brothers return to Central. But they find there more than they bargained for... Sequel to Embodied, co-written with Kaltia. Angst, mentions of mutilation and torture. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1: floating in the darkness

Title: Precious Things, part 1  
Rating: M  
Warnings: Angst, violence, mutilations, torture.  
Summary:  
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to my fic Embodied, which can be read in part here on and in full on my profile at scimitarsmile dot com. Parts of this fic were co-written with Kaltia, who can also be found at scimitarsmile dot com.

* * *

The world is filled with thunder, constant vibration coming up from the floor and from the walls. After months on months of living in the still and peaceful quiet in Riesenburg, the cacophony is overwhelming.

Under different circumstances, he might have even called it _deafening_.

Al must have felt his tension, because his hand on Ed's shoulder squeezes briefly in reassurance. Ed forces himself to relax. Al is taking care of things; he should trust his brother more. And there is nothing new here, nothing threatening; God only knows he's spent enough time on trains in the last five years. There's a familiarity to it still -- the hard edges of the wooden seat that grip his thighs, the smell of machine smoke drifting in through the windows, the gentle back-and-forth swaying of the car that accompanies the constant thudding roar.

But it was one thing to travel on a train, even one headed into new and possibly dangerous territory, knowing he could rely only on his own wits and resources to get him through any trouble. It's something else entirely to travel -- even into known and safe territory -- relying entirely on someone _else's_ wits and resources, knowing that if anything should go wrong, he would be completely helpless to deal with it.

A jolt shakes the train, and Ed grabs for the edge of the seat. His metal hand closes tightly on the edge, until he thinks he feels splintering under his fingers; Al's hand on his shoulder tightens again, guiding him back to his place.

_This is a bad idea,_ he thinks, not for the first time. _We should never have left Riesenburg..._

Safe Riesenburg, quiet Riesenburg. Winry and Auntie Pinako's house, comfortable and pleasant and oh so quiet. He knows every inch of the walls there, every step of the floorboards; everything there is laid out for him, until some days, if he is careful, he can almost pretend that he was self-able.

Empty Riesenburg, when Al is gone. Al spends so much of his time in Central, lately, feverishly shuttling back and forth between the town and the city as he tries to split his time between caring for Ed and his research on human transmutation. The strain on him is growing too much, and the long, cold periods of his absence have been slowly driving Edward mad.

This is the best solution, he tells himself, also not for the first time. He and Al will share an apartment in the heart of Central, less than an hour's walk from the great libraries. With the long distance between them cut short, Al can make much better progress in his research, while still being there for Ed all the time. And he will be right there, at hand, should they need to do more practical experiments for Al's findings.

He'd been the one to suggest it, because Al wouldn't have dared. Winry and Auntie objected -- or so Al relayed to him -- but there was nothing they could say to change his mind. It was his idea, it was the best solution... but it's hard to remember just why it seemed like such a good idea, with the clattering tumult all around him and his safe and lovely garden fading mile after mile behind them.

How long now? His time-sense is completely disoriented. He thinks of asking Al the time, but can't bring himself to do it. He doesn't want to open his mouth and try to speak in this roar, not when he knows that the train car is undoubtedly filled with other people... who would notice if he spoke too loudly, or got a word wrong. If they stare at him, if they whisper and point at him, he would never know... but he can't bring himself to ask, all the same.

The body beside his own moves, as Al slides down the wooden bench. His arm wraps around Ed's shoulders, and then warm hair tickles the side of Ed's neck as he buries his face in Ed's shoulder. Ed stiffens in alarm, wondering what the other people in the car must look like... but Al is speaking to him, and that commands his attention, as always.

"We've got at least four hours to go before we reach Central," Al murmurs to him, and it occurs to Ed that if he were hearing him aloud, Al's voice would be drowned out by the roaring of the train. "Why don't you take a nap until then?"

"A nap?" He feels his voice crack, and winces.

"You always used to."

He doesn't quite know how to explain that things were different, back then. That it's been a long time since he slept on a train seat, and he thinks he's lost the trick of it. Or maybe the trick of it was just that he wasn't afraid then.

Al's hand on his shoulder hugs him close, and then pulls him down. There's no point in objecting, and he pulls his legs -- heavy metal things -- up onto the bench next to him, and rests his head on Al's lap. He figures he can at least pretend to sleep, and Al won't know the difference.

Somewhere in there, though -- through the rocking of the train and the warmth of Al's fingers in his hair -- he thinks he does fall asleep. He can't always tell the difference.

* * *

A lessening in the beat of the tracks wakes him, and then a sudden lurching jolt nearly pitches him off the seat onto the floor. He steadies himself against the back of the seat in front of them, and then pushes himself up to a sitting position. His neck and back ache, from the cramped sleeping position, and he feels ridges dug into his nose and cheekbones from the sunglasses that cover his eyes. He reaches up to rub at them, carefully, but drops his hand hastily as the train lurches again.

Al's hand slides down to take his, and he stills, then takes a deep breath and shakes the fog from his head. Getting to the Riesenburg train station and onto the train was hard enough, letting Al lead him... it's a much bigger station, now, with so many more people.

The noise finally drops away, as the train creeps to a halt, and he bends all his concentration to trying to make out the world around him. Impacts vibrating the floor; footsteps, as the other passengers get up and gather their things, but Al stays put and he waits for his cue to move.

They're the last ones off, he thinks; Al guides him carefully down the steps to the platform, holding onto his hands, and he remembers to be grateful for the protection of the long sleeves and gloves against the winter bite. Al has just one bag, slung over one shoulder. Everything else of theirs is already at their apartment, he knows; Al came here the last week to get everything ready, so that he could devote this trip entirely to transporting Ed.

Al tugs his hand, but Ed resists for a moment, until Al shifts around to look at him, placing an inquiring hand on his shoulder. Ed blushes a little, ducking his head, but it's easier to speak now that the noise has gone down. "Al," he says. "Uh, bathroom?"

Two brisk taps on his right shoulder; their shorthand for yes. Al leads him off in a different direction, and Ed follows along willingly. They pass through a bar of sunlight, Ed can feel the warmth on his face below the sunglasses, then shadow again. Somewhere along the line the ground under his feet changes from concrete to wood, a difference he can feel in the echoes traveling back up his metal legs.

Suddenly Al stops, and Ed nearly runs into him, pulling himself up with an unsteady jerk. A thread of panic touches him, and he grabs onto Al's arm with more haste than dignity. Al doesn't move, and the panic spreads a bit. "Al?" he says aloud.

Al's hand moves to the back of his neck, sliding under the collar; Ed twitches, before he understands the reason for the touch. _Ross,_ Al writes in the limited space. _Sees us._

The unformed panic settles down to a more specific panic, mixed with mortification. He'd thought, of course, he'd envisioned the scenario of running into somebody he knew in Central... Armstrong or Ross or Havoc or oh God forbid _Mustang_. But it was more of an anxious nightmare than anything else, and he certainly hadn't made plans for what to do if such a misfortune would occur. "I don't want to talk to her!" he blurts out in a panic.

A hesitation, then two taps on the right shoulder. Al grips him by the shoulder, above the left automail, and hustles him off in a different direction. They pass out of the sunlight into some place cooler, and then Al is pushing him down on some kind of bench, and leaving him there. A swift kiss on the forehead, lips moving to form the word _stay!_ and then Alphonse is gone and he's alone.

The footsteps face, and the heat fades next. Ed stays where he's been put, and tries to imagine what's going on. Alphonse will go to meet Ross, certainly, to head her off; tell her... what? How much? Everything, or only what he has to in order to make her leave them alone? She's a kind woman, who cares far too much about them, and the last thing he wants is for her to come _check_ on them sometime.

Time passes, and Ed grows more and more anxious. He's sure nothing is wrong -- but he doesn't _know_, and the fact that there's absolutely nothing he could do if something_were_ wrong is enough to kill him.

Where is this place, anyway? Cold and damp with winter chill, but not cold enough to be outdoors. Is anyone else here? Could someone be watching him, and if so, what would they see? Nervously, he checks to make sure his glasses are still in place; they are, pressing sore lines into his face at the touch.

Footsteps approach, and Ed looks up just as though he can see who's coming. He listens hard, and decides it's probably not Alphonse; too heavy, too slow. He looks back down again, expecting the footsteps to pass him by -- but they stop in front of him, instead, and he imagines he can feel the presence of a body, standing over them.

Now what? What should he _do_? This isn't Alphonse, but he has no idea who it is -- friend or stranger or foe. He can't see the person, can't hear them. If they're talking to him now, expecting some kind of response, he can't give it to them. He folds his hands in his lap, barely-feeling the rub of cloth over cloth, and looks down. Hopefully he looks like he doesn't want to be bothered. Where's Al, anyway?

At last, the heavy footsteps turn and walk away, and Ed is relieved at the same time he's chagrined. Fortunately, it's not too long before Al comes back, his quick, light step as familiar to Ed as his own. He sits on the bench beside Ed, and throws an arm over Ed's back -- and he's ashamed to realize just how much a relief that is.

"Sorry, Niisan," Al says into his neck, and he's breathing quicker than usual. "Got her to go away. Let's go someplace safe."

Ed nods, and slips his automail hand into Al's flesh one with a feeling of relief. Alphonse squeezes hard -- he thinks, he can only sort-of feel it -- and pulls him off the bench. Gratefully, Edward follows him. All he wants is to find that someplace safe.

* * *

One coach ride, seemingly endless amounts of walking, and three flights of stairs later, and they're finally in their apartment. The first thing Ed does is find its bathroom -- immediately identifiable by smell, and fortunately the layout of all bathrooms were similar -- while Al unpacks their bag. He comes out a few minutes later, and gratefully allows Al to sit him down on the edge of the bed with a groan of relief.

Al sits next to him, and pats him on the shoulder. _Sorry_, he says briefly. Ed, still breathing hard to get his wind back, just shrugs. It's not Al's fault that Ed's been little more than an invalid these past months, that he's completely lost his stamina, that something as simple as a ride on a train and a walk should exhaust him. At least his automail legs don't tire, he thinks as he rubs at his right thigh, although the human parts are killing him.

It's chilly in the apartment, but the next thing he does is to fumble with the buttons on his high-neck, long-sleeved shirt. He wants it open, he wants it off, so he can talk with Al. There's something he needs to ask, something that's eating at him far more than the dull ache of his muscles.

After a moment, Al realizes what he's doing, and his hands catch Ed's and pull them away. _Cold_, he admonishes him.

"I'll put it back on in a minute," he says irritably. "Wanna talk to you. Couldn't all day."

Al gives way reluctantly, and he helps Ed with the extremely annoying buttons, until Ed can shrug out of his shirt and leave his chest and back bare to the room. He shivers, as the chill creeps over him, and Al shifts around until he's sitting behind Ed on the bed, leans forward, and blankets Ed's skin with his own.

_What's wrong?_ he writes, fingers tracing carefully over Ed's stomach. _You've been holding up great, but we're safe now._

"Al, please tell me," he says, slowly, forming each word carefully. He wishes for a pad of paper and a pen, something he's had more practice with. "Were people... were a lot of people... staring at... us?"

There's a moment where Al stills, and Ed clenches his teeth to hold back any further words. It's a stupid, pathetic question, he knows, but he _needs_ to know. He can live with people staring at him, for his automail, for his glasses, for the way he doesn't react properly to the world around him, hell, for staying in such close contact to another man. He's used to being stared at; he doesn't care what people think. But imagining the eyes on him, and never knowing if they're real, or imagination... it's driving him crazy. He needs to _know_.

At last Alphonse answers. _The people who were on the train when we boarded stared for a little while, but after a few miles they lost interest. The people at the platform were too busy to look at us. The coach driver stared at you and asked me what was wrong. I told him you were blind. We passed our next door neighbor on the stairs but she didn't stop to look._

Honest answers. Ed relaxes; that was all he wanted to know. He nods, letting his shoulders slump in relief. Al crosses his arms over his chest and hugs him, leaning over to kiss his cheek. _You're amazing, you know._

He flushes, and shakes his head, and feels Al chuckle. "It's true," he whispers. "We got here okay. It'll only get better from now on."

They're here; they're really here. Ed lets this sink in, then sighs and nods. When he moves his head, the metal frame of the sunglasses bumps against Al. He'd forgotten about those entirely. Reminded, Ed reaches up and pulls them off, and lets them drop onto the bed beside him; without knowing where a table is to put them on, that's the best he can do.

The glasses leave dull aches on his face, around his eyes; his sinuses throb in time with his head, which seems to pulse along with the angry ache in his legs. It's pathetic, how tired he is. "What time is it?" he mumbles, reaching up to rub his face with his metal hand. He definitely fell asleep on the train; something dried and flaky crumbles off his skin as he rubs at it. Eew.

_A little after eight. I'm going to get us some food in a minute, and then we'll go to bed. Tomorrow I'll go shopping for real food._ He nods, and Al uncurls himself from around Ed's chest, getting off the bed.

Ed gropes for his shirt, finds it, and starts to untangle it to put it on. He manages to get it on, but stops before tackling the buttons, rubbing harder at his face. His skin itches -- his eyes itch like crazy, they've become gummed up, and it's all he can do not to scratch them.

Al is suddenly there, one hand tilting his chin up, and he feels a warm, damp cloth brush against his cheek. He stops -- drops his hands and goes completely still -- out of ingrained habit, as he does whenever Alphonse does this.

In the months that Alphonse has been caring for him, Edward has had to completely redefine the word indignity. Things got better once he had his automail -- once he could move himself and tend to most of his own needs -- but there were still many tasks he couldn't accomplish himself, whether for lack of senses or lack of the necessary fine coordination. Of them all, this was probably the worst.

After his last encounter with the Gate, his eyes had gone the same was as his arm and his leg. What was left was nothing but hollow lids sealed over empty sockets, useless and ugly. But they had bled, and scabbed, and scarred with the rest of his wounds, and they needed cleaning. They still do, every few days, and no matter how ugly and horrifying it must be, he can only imagine it must be, Alphonse accomplishes this task with the same mindful patience as any other.

Gentle, experienced fingers move over his eyes, the damp cloth -- warm, but not hot -- soaking the encrustations away. When the water trickles back behind his eyelids, he shudders, and sets his jaw. It doesn't _hurt_, not really, but it's always strange, sensation on nerves that were never meant to be exposed; like a touch on the stump of his arm or his leg.

It's always frightening when Al touches him there. Always frightening, sometimes painful -- but he doesn't move, not so much as a muscle, until Al is done. Because the touch is so gentle, so caring, in the face of what he knows must be a hideous sight; as though he's something precious.

Al is done, and the washcloth moves away. Ed relaxes with a shuddering sigh, lowering his head, and Al combs slightly-damp fingers through his hair. He stays there for a minute, offering reassurance and support, and something else -- Ed can't quite figure out what it is -- before Al moves away and goes back to his promised task of dinner. _Apology?_ Surely not.

The food is good, even though it's leftovers from some stall in the city, cold and a little stale. Food is always good, but tonight Ed can barely taste it, he's too exhausted and overwhelmed. He licks the final crumbs from his fingers -- the most efficient way of cleaning what he can't feel -- and he's almost falling asleep in the chair, stifling a crushing yawn with one hand.

He lets Al shepherd him into bed, and he's too tired to notice or care about the differences from this bed -- chillier, narrower, stiffer than their bed back in Riesenburg. That's all right. What matters is that Al is here.

* * *

He sleeps in late the next day, finally waking when heat creeps up his outflung metal arm and tingles in his shoulder; the sun on his automail. Al gives him a cheerful good morning, teases him about how long he slept in, and promises to have a table set up for him by the end of the day.

His stomach growls, and he rubs it and asks after food. There's none in the apartment; Al was waiting for him to wake up to go shopping. _You'll be okay while I'm gone?_ he asks, as he brushes the tangles out of Ed's hair and puts it back in the braid.

"I'll be fine. It's not much different from being in Riesenburg while you're gone." He smiles. Actually it's much better, even if he really is alone without Winry or Pinako around to help if he needs it, because he knows Al will be back soon. "I'll get to know the place while you're gone."

Al gives him a hug, and he's off. He waits for a while, after Al leaves, just to make sure he's gone, and then pushes himself off the bed and begins to explore the apartment.

This is something he'd much rather do alone; it's slow, and painstaking, and sometimes awkward and ridiculous. But the best way to learn the apartment, to build the picture of it in his head, is to go and learn each of the walls by feel, not only with his hands but with what remains of his human skin.

He remembers from last night that there are three rooms; the bedroom, the bathroom, and a larger room that includes the kitchen in the corner. He starts with a slow, careful tour of the bedroom, going over every inch of the walls and floors, learning the shape and feel of the bed and desk. No chair yet. One cold glass window, in the wall above the bed; a metal grating that he assumes is an air shaft, on the opposite wall. There isn't much furniture; he'll have to ask Al if they plan to get more, or if this is all they need.

He bumps into the desk when he goes into the living room, and discovers papers and pens scattered across the surface. No way to tell if they're blank, intended for his use, or if they're something Al needs; he leaves them, for now, and goes to explore the kitchen.

It's easy to find things here; the faint smell of gas lingers about the stove, even when it's off, and the cupboards and pantries, though empty, still contain stale, slightly-off scents of the food that the last occupants kept here. His stomach rumbles again, and he hopes Al will get back soon with the food.

At last he feels confident enough to walk back into the bedroom without touching the walls, and sits back on the bed to rest. There's still a bit of sun coming in through the window behind him, warming the chill air, and he relaxes in it.

He likes it here; at least he thinks he'll be comfortable here. It's much smaller than the house at Riesenburg, and he'll still miss the garden, but at the same time it's comforting to have a smaller space around him, something easier to deal with. Maybe in enough time he'll get restless in this confined space and long for the open air, but in the winter he's just as glad to stay inside out of the cold.

As if to echo his thoughts, a sudden draft of cold air washes over his face. With a frown, he turns his face into it. Where had that come from? The window is closed, and he hadn't felt any moving air here before --

The blow rocks his world without warning; a sudden explosion of force that throws him back against the mattress and forces the breath from his lungs. It takes his scattered wits a moment to resolve the impact to a throbbing pain on his right cheek; something liquid trickles down his cheek, and he reaches up to touch the blood. What -- ___how --_

A strong hand tangles in the collar of his shirt, fisting tight, yanking him back up. He grabs wildly with his automail, and closes his hands around his attacker's arm. There's no give in the grip, no matter how he yanks, and how ___strong_ is this person, that they don't even mind the force of his automail? Changing tactics, he lashes out with an automail foot at the place where his attacker's body ___must be;_the shock of impact travels back up his leg, jerking him back against the collar of his shirt, but the grip doesn't lessen, doesn't let up at all.

A hoarse shout tears out of his throat as he's lifted up, smoothly and effortlessly, in a terrifying rush of motion. There's nothing to brace himself against, no point of reference, nothing to hold onto. ___Who --_

The dizzying movement ends in another agonizing shock, this one spreading through all of his body, all of his world, until he knows nothing more.

* * *

~tbc


	2. Chapter 2: let them bleed

Precious Things, part 2: let them bleed  
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to my fic Embodied, which can be read in part here on and in full on my profile at scimitarsmile dot com. Parts of this fic were co-written with Kaltia, who can also be found at scimitarsmile dot com.

* * *

Al pauses on the door step and huffs out a long breath, resting his bag of groceries in the crook of one arm and fumbling in his coat pocket for his keys. Winter in Central is nowhere near as cold as back in Riesenburg, where the snow sometimes strands people for weeks at a time in their homes, and for a brief moment he is glad they moved. Even this much cold makes Ed's automail limbs ache; the temperature of their hometown would quickly make them intolerable.

He shoulders open the doors, swinging his keys by their ring around one finger, then stops in the middle of the lobby. They share their apartment block with two university lecturers, a ballet student, and five artists; two of the artists and the ballerina are standing on the landing on the second floor, outside the door of his apartment. He makes his way up the stairs towards them, frowning, and his knuckles are white with tension when he closes his fingers on his keys.

He stops a few feet away, trying to assess the situation. The door to his apartment is shut, and there's no sign of the police. He forces himself to breath out, and squeezes past the little throng, trying to ignore them.

"-insist on fighting, they could at least have the decency -"

"Indeed, can't be having with this, I was trying to work-"

"Obnoxious loud pests - but then, I suppose..."

Fighting? His heart in his mouth, Al scrabbles with the lock, forcing the door open when it seems jammed. He takes a few steps in, and drops his bag, horrified.

There's no sign of Ed. He steps out of the hall, not bothering to shut the door behind him, and stops at the entrance to the bedroom; the covers have been thrown around, but that doesn't bother him half as much as the fact that the room is _empty_. He raises both hands to his mouth and takes a deep breath, screwing his eyes shut, before walking fully into the room.

There's blond hair scattered over the pillow, from where they slept last night; but there, a snatch of gold all in a clump, with a bit of skin still attached to the end. There's traces of blood on the pillows, the formerly pristine white sheets. He takes a step closer, and shivers in a light breeze; it takes him a while to notice that the window is open, and there's some more blood spilt over the windowsill.

There's a crack in the plaster, on the segment of the wall at the foot of the bed, he notes almost absently. A crack like something thrown against it, hard, by something strong. There's more traces of blood over the wall, and another fine golden hair snagged by the plaster.

The air-duct, several feet off the ground above the bed, has been wrenched open from the inside; he finds the grate - dented, as though someone hit something with it, but there's no blood on it so Ed can't have been its target - three feet away, halfway underneath the desk. He doesn't pick it up, vaguely aware that this is a crime scene and you shouldn't touch things from a crime scene, but he's also sickly aware that there won't be any fingerprints or anything to find.

He straightens slowly, takes a deep breath, and just makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up.

He clings to the sink with one hand for balance, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and simply stares down the white porcelain basin. Whatever happens, he knows, he must not panic. He has to keep his head clear, and think this through. One thing is for certain; his brother did not leave this room of his own free will.

Who could have taken him? The military? Ross wouldn't have sold them out, he's sure, but a careless comment to the wrong ears... But the military wouldn't need to sneak into the building, to arrest someone inside. They could burst in through the front door, and who would stop them?

The front door was still locked -- the air grate comes to mind. Smashed from the inside. But nobody could have fit through that small space -- nobody _human_, that is. Not all of their enemies are human...

_Envy_? He can't imagine anyone else with such strength, and a vendetta against them. Another surge of nausea overwhelms him, and he chokes and spits, but there's nothing left in him to come up.

His knuckles tighten on the sides of the sink, growing white with tension. Envy - if that's who it is - won't kill Ed straight away; he hates him too much for that. He has a little bit of time, but he doesn't know how much; he can't say for sure whether he has a week, or even two days.

Al pushes himself away, wiping his hands on a towel; there's bile in his mouth, and his stomach still feels uneasy, but he heads back into the bedroom and looks out of the window, careful not to touch the sill.

It's a straight drop from the window into the apartment block's back yard, where the residents leave their rubbish. He can see a light crater, almost; Envy is as light and graceful as a cat, but his brother has four metal limbs and therefore weighs considerably more than two people.

He hurtles down the stairs, pushing roughly through his neighbors, still congregated outside his door. At their indignant cries he screeches to a halt at the foot of the stairs and turns back up towards them, face pale and mouth tight. "Did you see anything?" he demands, and, struck mute, they simply stare back at him. "Did you see anything?_Anything?"_

"No," one of them sputters, and Al clenches one of his hands into a fist and punches the wall, hard enough to sting his knuckles. His shoulders heave, but he pushes himself away and glares up at them. "Call the police for me," he snaps. "Tell them there's been an abduction."

This is Central, he thinks as he jogs out to the back yard. The police here defer anything more important than petty larceny to the military. Once someone in the military finds out about Ed, he knows, there will be trouble; he can't think of anything else to do, though, can't think of anyone else who could possibly be a match for Envy. He'll do anything he has to do get his brother back.

There are a few more spatters of blood over the floor around the crater. He wishes there were something easy to follow - a trail, maybe - but there isn't; the bleeding seems to have stopped here. He crouches on his haunches, feeling a hot tightness behind his eyes, and blinks the feeling away. There's so much that needs to be done, and the sooner he starts, the better.

* * *

It's dank, and dark, and smells like wet rats and decay down here, in the ruins of the old city. Envy dumps Ed unceremoniously on top of a heap of mouldy books in the corner of what was once a great domed library, and crouches to better inspect his haul.

His prize should be valuable, gold hair and silver limbs - and more than one, he noticed back in that tiny apartment, to his glee. This is Hohenheim's precious golden child, and he can't even defend himself. "Hey there, Your Mighty Fullmetal Shortness," he says, in a sing-song voice - he likes the title, it has a ring to it, and besides it drives the runt nuts. "You're pretty marked up already, ain't'cha?"

Ed doesn't respond, instead huddling into himself. His metal limbs clatter, like his oh-so-precious brother's armoured body used to do, and it takes Envy a while to realise that he's shaking slightly, and trying to hide it. He scowls, and reaches out to prod the brat with a sharp finger. "Oi," he says, lazily. "Pay attention to me, shrimp."

Ed flinches, and swipes wildly in the direction of the jab with his automail. Envy leans out of his range, scowling - why is the midget so pathetic now? - and then grips the elbow firmly. Ed desperately struggles to pull his arm free, fear dominating his face, and with barely any effort at all, Envy snaps the metal arm off at the elbow. It's not nearly as much fun as it would be if it were his real arm, Envy reflects, but he enjoys the sounds he gets, anyway.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Terror makes the kid's voice slurred - no, not just terror, Envy realises with a frown.

He snaps his fingers beside the boy's face, and Ed doesn't so much as cringe. With a growing sense of anger, Envy bares his teeth and spits, "Can you hear me, Honoured Shortarse?"

Nothing. Not a spark of acknowledgment.

Blind rage wells up in Envy, and he crashes his fist into the boy's cheek so hard Ed is sent flying.

It's not _fair_, he thinks, kicking the runt in the ribs to flip him over. Ed cries out, gripping at the injured spot, and he kicks him there again, just to give vent to his anger. He had _so_many plans for this moment, and not only had somebody broken his toy _before_ him, but now the little brat can't even hear him coming. He hardly even puts up a struggle, just curling in on himself on the filthy ground, struggling to breathe.

Envy leans over and grips him by the hair, forcing him up, and runs slow fingers along the hollows of his eyes; Ed whimpers and thrashes, attempting to escape the painful hold, and Envy's lips part in a sneer. "I wonder," he whispers, pressing his lips against Ed's forehead as he does so. "I wonder what lies behind these. Can't be pretty, right, o-Fullmetal Runty One? Shall we see?"

The taunting words go unheard, but at least Ed is cringing properly now, breath coming in quick helpless gasps, and Envy wants blood. He doesn't bother to try and pry the shrimp's eyes open; so much simpler just to puncture through.

Ed's screams are lost in the dead air.

* * *

The military headquarters really haven't changed, no matter how long it is since he's last been there. Al squares his shoulders and cranes his head up, trying to see as much of the green banner as he can, then climbs the steps.

He doesn't need to talk to the receptionist to know the way. He's walked it often enough, but before his brother was there, storming ahead of him, ranting about 'that shit Colonel'. He closes his eyes on a sudden fierce stab of fear - is his brother okay? Has Envy already done something to him - and then there it is, that innocuous, unassuming brown door at the end of the corridor. He hesitates outside, mustering his nerve, then raps sharply on the wood with the knuckles of one hand.

There's no reply, and he's not sure whether that's good, or bad. The military, as far as he knows, have never been notified about what happened to Ed; they've probably marked him as AWOL, and yet haven't come to Riesenburg searching for him. He missed his last assessment; he'd actually having his final piece of automail - his left arm, the one they'd left 'til last, had been holding out for - put in on the exact date.

He scowls at the door, glances at the door handle, and shakes his head minutely. Ed sleeptalks something terrible, and through this he knows Ed doesn't want Mustang to know what happened to him; Al will get the man's help, and he'll save that bit for some other time, when Ed doesn't have to know about it.

He takes a bare moment to compose himself, then pushes the door open.

It's a normal day in the office. Fury and Breda are loudly filling Havoc in on something they did last night, while Mustang himself is buried behind a large broadsheet newspaper. Hawkeye, standing behind him with a clipboard in her hand, is the first to notice him; she visibly starts, then frowns. The noise dies down as Havoc catches sight of him too, and when it's silent Roy begins to fold up the newspaper. He freezes when he, too, sees Al.

Al's hands twitch at his sides, and he wraps his arms around himself, pulling his coat tight against him.

"Alphonse?" Hawkeye asks slowly, breaking the silence. Al looks up and smiles a little, self-consciously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

* * *

Edward knows, almost as soon as he wakes, that he is going to die. Probably messily, painfully, and soon _(at least, he hopes it's relatively soon, better than the alternative.)_

His body is a world of hurt; he keeps starting to catalog it all, in an ingrained habit of self-inventory, and then has to stop. He's curled himself as best he can in the corner where he was thrown; the walls are cold stone and slimy, but it's better something solid at his back. Not that it makes any difference, in the end; his enemy can come at him from the front as easily as behind.

There's no way to know who has him, or why, or what they're planning, but there's one thing he does know -- he's helpless to stop them. He can't fight, he can't run, he can't even try to sneak something past his captor, not with no way of knowing when they're looking or even how many of them are out there. _I have too many damned enemies._Whatever they want to do to him, they'll do; and from the way things are going, it looks like it's going to entail a lot of pain, and then death.

That should bother him more than it does, but he feels only a sense of empty resignation at the prospect. It feels like this, or something like it, has been coming for him ever since he stood in the gate; all his struggles and Alphonse's desperate care only served to delay what was inevitable.

He's not afraid of pain. _(Liar!)_ He's had enough of it inflicted on him in his lifetime, both by people who hate him and people who love him, to fear it. Hasn't he?

Al. Was he taken too? Where is he now? If he's safe, and finds Ed gone, then he'll search for him, Ed knows; he can't stifle the whisper of hope that maybe Al will come for him, take him away from all this. But if it were that easy, he would have done it already, and most of him knows with empty resignation that no-one is going to come.

A draft moves over him, and he freezes, tensing so that that his ribs cry out in protest._Again?_ But nothing comes; it seems he's been left alone for a little while now. Maybe his captor has gone somewhere. Maybe this would be the perfect time to make his escape. His right leg drags in a mess of splinters and wires over the stone, but he's not secured anywhere. Maybe he could crawl.

A gust of cold air slaps him in the face, and he flinches; wincing away even before the hands descend on him, yanking him out of his defensive huddle. It seems his little breather is over. He steels himself for another blow, but none comes; instead, the hands run over his face and down his chest in a mockery of tenderness, prodding at swollen bruises and cracked bones. It might as well be in the Gate, an old nightmare, a familiar terror.

He's learning something; familiarity with pain doesn't lessen the fear of it. If anything, it's only greater with every successive repetition, some unheard voice inside him crying out _no more, no more, no more_.

It would be really nice if Al were to show up to save him _now_.

Now.

Now.

* * *

"I need your help," Al says, choosing not to dwell on any details. Hawkeye scowls and Roy carefully places the folded newspaper on his desk, swiveling his chair to fully face Al and resting his chin on his clasped hands. Nobody says anything, and Al can feel his spine crawling. "It's my brother," he adds, hoping that this will help.

Roy narrows his eyes, but reaches into a desk drawer, removing a segment of paper. "'Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist,'" he says, reading aloud. "Missing, presumed dead. Went missing in action and has not reported in for fifteen months. This is a warrant for his arrest in case the presumption should prove wrong, you know."

Al frowns, scuffing his boots on the floor. "We didn't have a choice," he whispers.

"So you just left? Without even coming to see me, to tell me anything?" Roy's voice is quiet and even, and his face shows no sign of what he must be feeling.

"Niisan was in no condition to do so," Al mutters. He clenches his fists at his sides, glaring at the floor. "And if I had a choice now I wouldn't be here either, but -"

Roy is still watching him with that patient, even look, and he really doesn't like it. It makes him feel so small, so foolish; like a little boy who hadn't owned up to his father about stealing all the cookies in the jar. He chooses to try and look away, hands clenching at his sides. He is not a little boy. He is capable and strong and has someone relying on him and -

- someone relying on him. Someone who he has failed. "I need your help," he repeats. "___He_ needs it. Please..."

"You said that when you first came in," Roy says quietly. "I fail to see why Edward needs my help now, after fifteen months with no contact."

"He wasn't in trouble before!" Al protests, drawing himself up. "I won't be able to find him on my own - "

"___Find_ him?" Roy asks, unfolding his arms in startlement, and when Al chooses to look at his boots, says in a low voice, "I think you'd better explain everything."

Al opens his mouth to tell the man that, no, he can't, and stops. He wants Ed back, and if he's going to get the help of the military, he'll have no choice but to share all the information they have. Besides, they _had_ wronged Roy. Whether or not Ed chooses to acknowledge it, the man has helped them in the past, and was rewarded with silence and abandonment. Doesn't he deserve an explanation?

"Niisan's been kidnapped," he says, straightening his spine. "I need your help to find him and bring back. Right away. He's in danger and I - I can't let that happen..."

Roy tapped his pen against his desk, and frowns. "I commend your loyalty to your brother, Alphonse, but need I remind you that Edward has gotten himself out of such situations before? He's a very resourceful young man, I'm sure he'll find a way to --"

"No, he _won't_!" Al spits, shoulders hunched and tense. "He can't take care of himself any more and - I... I can't tell you why. Just please, help me?"

Roy looks mildly disturbed, and leans back in his chair. Al can feel the tension in his shoulders, and gulps nervously as Roy's dark eyes sweep over him. "I see," Roy says, but he isn't giving anything away, and a moment later picks up the pen and a pad of paper. "Tell me what happened. In as much detail as you can."

* * *

This, Envy decides with a deep sigh, is fucking boring. It'd be more interesting if the runt were doing something, but as Envy started running out of bones to break, all the fight seems to have gone out of the kid. He is currently huddled in a pitiful ball in the corner, shaking.

A little light filters down from some caverns or air shafts leading to the world above, which is plenty enough for Envy to see by, and does the shrimp no good at all. Periodically he'll flinch whenever a light breeze strikes his face, which had amused the_hell_ out of Envy the first... oh, five times, but now seems as mediocre as the rest of him.

It's just so _tedious_. If the shrimp hadn't been broken, there would be _hours_ of fun to be had, snapping his fingers one by one, taunting him by making him think he was about to get beaten only to pull away at the last second, turning into his just-as-dull brother and maybe fucking him long and hard and painful.

Well, he can still do the last, but it'll just be utterly pointless unless the half-pint can_see_ the pleasure on his 'brother's' face as he rides him good and hard. Heh, that would just utterly _shatter_ the brat, who loves his brother -

- Who loves his brother. Envy sits up a little more, and watches the boy grubbing around in the corner with a growing expression of glee.

Ed has nothing he wants, and is therefore useless. But that isn't the same as having nothing at all.

Hohenheim had had two sons with that barnyard bitch.

He had never paid much attention to the younger brother before -- a hollow shell of a human soul, there was little of interest. But if the shorty is this much of a mess, then it means there has to be a whole, healthy brother out there in his place.

In his place, yes! _He_ can easily take the place of the little cripple, and Envy can start his plans all over again from the beginning. If anything, it will be even more satisfying than he'd imagined; compared to the Fullmetal Shrimp, who _used_ to be a fighter, the little brother is a real wuss. It will be so easy to make him cry.

Envy hops off of his perch, mind already churning over with new ideas and excitement, and saunters over to the corner where Edward sits shivering. Metal clatters over metal, gleaming like treasure in the dim filtered light in the underground room. Envy has shredded the brat's clothes already, in a fury to find four automail limbs where there should have been only two, leaving nothing left for him.

He bends over Ed, hands on his hip -- and that cringe is satisfying again -- then reaches out to grab him by the neck and haul him up. "Change of plans, shorty," he sing-songs, running his fingers over the tracks of blood that have dried, like tears, on Edward's face. "You should count yourself lucky. I'm off to get your sniveling little brother, and bring him back here. Won't that be fun, eh? A regular family reunion."

Ed hisses, clutching sightlessly at the hand on his throat; his breath rattles in his lungs, and Envy's inhuman senses detect the faint bubble of liquid. Idly, he runs a hand down the wrecked body, prodding at the spots where fragile human flesh have given way. How pathetic. "Maybe that'll liven things up around here. I wonder how much it will hurt him to see you in this state, runt? It'll be fun. You might not be any fun to break, but I think I'll like to see his face when I take you apart --" He breaks off with a laugh, imagination outpacing his words.

The kid doesn't react, of course. Envy snorts, and drops him back to his feet. His legs give out almost immediately, and Envy catches him again, slamming him back against the wall. "Feh, this is useless. You can't hear a word I'm saying."

He tries to look at Ed objectively, to judge how much life the kid has left in him, and comes up with a disappointingly small figure. "Wonder if I should bother to come back here at all," he muses aloud. "I could take your adorable little brother some other place in the city, and just leave you here alone. You'd hardly know the difference, would you? You'd even be free to go, assuming you could get far on those legs. Hah!"

He throws back his head and laughs, releasing Ed to slide in a heap back to his corner. They're far underground, in a maze of natural caverns disrupted by sunken architecture; there's no light, no food, and no people. The image of Edward, crawling blindly through the slime until he dies of pain and dehydration, is enough to keep him grinning all the way to the surface.

* * *

~tbc.


	3. Chapter 3: hey they found a body

Title: Precious Things, Part 3  
Rating: M  
Warnings: Violence, angst  
Author's Notes: Co-written with Kaltia.

* * *

_hey they found a body_

_not sure it was his but they're using his name_

* * *

i_This isn't going to work,_ Ed thinks.

That isn't going to stop him from trying, though. After all, it's not like he hasn't worked alchemy in trying situations before. On one particularly memorable occasion, he had no other option but to draft a transmutation circle -- blind, behind his back, with his off hand, with a poor stylus on an even worse surface. His life depended on it then, too, he thinks.

But at least that time he was able to feel what he was doing; he had a hand of flesh and blood, not only automail. And back then it hadn't been over a year since he last looked at an automail array; the mental image of the circle sears the darkness before his eyes now, but who can say if it is correct, or if his memory is playing tricks on him? He hasn't even _done_ any alchemy since the Gate; for all he knows, he lost the capability when he lost everything else.

i_But what's the alternative?_ Ed thinks grimly. i_Sit here until I die?_

An option that is very frighteningly possible, unfortunately. He isn't going to think about that. He concentrates instead on the array taking shape under his hand, hoping like crazy that he's drawing it right. He has nothing to draw it with but the metal of his remaining automail hand, though he works to keep the pressure even.

With the rest of his body curled around the small circle in the floor, he's doing his best to keep it out of sight of anyone who might be watching -- but there will be no way to hide the reaction once it starts. All he can do is hope that this long cessation of abuse means that his captor is temporarily elsewhere -- long enough for him to try and make a break for it.

Hope he's not watched. Hope the array is right. Hope that a blind leap will get him out of this hell.

Hope is a lot like faith, when it comes to it. He doesn't believe in God, at least no kind of God that religion likes to proffer -- but it's only human to cry for help when you're in need, and when he presses his hand against the scraped array and wills it to activate, he can't help but send a whispered prayer to it. i_Please work. Please, please..._

For a moment there's nothing, and then a sudden crackle of sparks and energy leaps onto his skin, centered on the array under his hand. Dizzy with hope, he pushes himself up, raising his hand, and the stone follows it, shaping itself (he assumes) according to the image in his mind. It's one he's crafted dozens of times before, something basic; a pole formed of the lighter elements in the stone, a cane. Something that will support his weight, and guide him.

He can't raise himself up more than a few inches, so he slips his hand to loosely cup the rising shaft of stone, and gauging an estimate of how fast it's growing, gives it several more seconds before cutting off the reaction.

Gingerly, he grips his new staff, and angles it against the floor, pushing hard. It holds; it holds i_him._ And there are no hands on him, no pain; his captor must truly be gone, then. He nearly passes out with relief.

With difficulty, he drags himself back from the red painless shore of unconsciousness, and bends to his next task. It's a lot harder to find a good surface, on the smashed remains of his left leg, to inscribe the array, but the success of his previous experiment has given him confidence, and after a good deal of useless fumbling he thinks he has it down. Once again holding his breath, he lays his one remaining hand on his ruined leg and activates the array.

He can't repair his own automail with alchemy; he doesn't have the knowledge, or the fine control. The few times in the past he tried, he ended up with an unworkable mess even worse than what he'd started with, and Winry gave him hell. If he couldn't manage it at the top of his form, he won't be able to now; instead, he concentrates on reshaping the splintered mass of metal into something that will bear his weight.

Despite the best care he can manage, the transmutation plays havoc with the remaining wires attached in his leg, and he bites down on a lip already chewed into tatters to swallow against the pain. But the automail shifts, and reforms, into a hollow shell the proper size and shape. It's as clumsy and useless as a wooden leg, but it will serve.

As carefully as he can, he manages to pull himself to his knees, hanging onto his cane. There is something inside of him that shifts with every movement in an agonizing, terrifying way, but he just grits his teeth and breathes against it. No alternative. No alternative. He grips the cane as far up as he can easily reach, braces for it, and i_pulls._

Despite his best efforts, something hoarse rips out of his mangled throat as the pressure puts new stresses on his torn and broken chest and stomach. A part of him distantly hopes that his captor is really gone, not just in the next room -- but there's nothing he can do about that. As it is, if the strength of his automail arm were dependent on the strength of his flesh body, he would never have made it to his feet, but the machines do their work, and Ed comes back to himself swaying on his feet, clinging for dear life to his new cane.

As he takes a slow breath, and straightens up, he brushes against his cane and realizes with startlement that all unknowing, he'd added a blade to the end. i_Habit._ Well, he can hardly scrap it and make a new one now; he'll just have to hang onto it below the blade.

The brief rush of confidence and elation at these small triumphs runs out of him, though, like warmth from a fresh wound. That was the relatively easy part. The next part of his task -- to somehow find his way out of this place, blind, and hope to stumble upon some place inhabited by friendlies, all without running into his captor or any other enemies -- i_Well, what's the alternative?_ he tells himself sharply. If he dies stumbling around in the dark, then he'll be no worse off than if he dies in any of the other ways that lie in store for him.

Slowly, painstakingly, he begins. The first task is to find a wall, and he manages that without too much difficulty; he remembers the corner he was in, and it's not too far from i_here_ to i_there_. Next is simply to follow the wall, the jagged stump of his right automail pressing against it for support as he sweeps the ground before his feet with the tip of the cane, testing for obstacles.

Every step is a trial. His head swims, and if he were relying only on human flesh and not on automail, he would go nowhere. If he falls now, he knows with a sick certainty that he'll never get up again. Somewhere in here, there has to be a door. With luck, it'll be open, and the way out. If not... well, he'll figure that out when he comes to it.

How long does he have, before his captor returns? What if he delays too long -- if he makes a tiny mistake and misses the door, or trips over something and falls on his face -- and his captor comes back? Then he'll have only himself to blame, for his failure to save himself while he had the chance. It's that thought, the burning knowledge that this may be the only chance he'll have to act, that keeps him going forward.

The wall suddenly vanishes on his right side, and he stumbles and nearly falls, before catching himself on his cane with a jolt that fills his mouth with the fresh taste of blood. A door -- or a corner of the room? He turns back, trying to feel the contours -- a door, it seems to be a door, one set in an especially thick wall. Maybe outdoors? He steps firmly on that thread of rising hope, to quash it; there's no lessening of the stink, the oppressive wet atmosphere. He can't be outdoors.

Not yet, anyway. He finds the wall of the -- hallway? -- and starts out again, shaking with the effort, and too many too-strong emotions. He can do this, he can do this, he i_has_ to hurry.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up first, some sixth sense screaming a warning that his time has run out, even as the gust of cold air washes over him. Too late. His captor has returned, and all of Ed's blood-sweat efforts are for nothing. He's going to hurt again; he's going to die...

His automail hand tightens on the shaft of his cane -- his weapon, by force of habit -- in a strange suspended instant of time. If he's going to die anyway... what does he have left to lose? i_What's the alternative?_ he asks himself. i_Nothing. There's nothing._

The first brush of skin against his warns him, and he throws himself back against the wall, barely dodging what feels like a punch. He braces himself against the wall for an instant, and then lunges, holding his weapon out, lashing out against his captor and tormenter.

i_This isn't going to work,_ Ed despairs.

It doesn't.

* * *

Twenty soldiers. Al bites his lip, and rubs slightly damp palms on his hips. Mustang commanded twenty soldiers to accompany him on this investigation, and they start back at the scene of the crime, the apartment block. He stands by Mustang's side in the backyard, by the cracks in the pavement radiating out in a circular pattern. Beside him, the older alchemist is silent, arms crossed as he frowns down at the small crater. He can't figure out what Mustang is thinking.

"Tell me again, from the beginning," Mustang says abruptly, and Al jumps. "You say you left the apartment this morning..."

"Around noon, actually," Al supplies, picking up the story again. "I went out to buy some food. We moved in last night and the pantry was empty."

"How long were you out?" Mustang was still studying the small crater, one hand resting on his chin. Above them, in the ill-fated apartment, a handful of Mustang's men flit about, gathering what clues they can from the scene of the crime. Most of the rest of them are out with Hawkeye, searching for a trail leading away from here; Al hopes desperately that they'll find one, but from the set of Hawkeye's shoulders when she headed off, he rather thinks there won't be.

"Not long." Al frowns, and wishes he'd had a watch, so he could tell the time exactly. "No more than an hour. More like three-quarters of an hour... I came back and he was gone."

"There's no chance he could have stepped out on his own?"

"No." Al shakes his head firmly. "None at all. He... he said he was going to stay in the apartment," he adds weakly, when Mustang lifts his gaze to study him. He hopes that he won't have to say more; that Mustang won't need to know.

"Might he have changed his mind?" Mustang asks quietly.

"No. He couldn't -- he wouldn't have gone out without me," Al says, then adds, "Besides -- when I came back, the door was still locked, like i was when I left. And Niisan didn't have a key."

"The door was locked, and the window open," Mustang muses. "These cracks indicate that something heavy landed here, from a height. But how did the assailant get up to the window in the first place?"

"I don't think he did," Al says. He takes a deep breath, then shares his theory. "I think he got into the apartment from the air shaft. If --"

Mustang turns to face him, surprised. "Through the air shaft? Surely that's impossible. It's much too narrow."

"The cover was torn off -- more like punched out from the inside," Al said quietly. "There's no other way for him to have gotten in."

"But nothing could fit through that shaft --"

"Nothing human." Al shakes his head quickly. "I think -- I think it was one of the Homunculus."

He stares at the ground, avoiding Mustang's eyes, but he can hear his startled intake of breath. "There have been no reports of the homunculi for over a year. I had assumed they were gone."

"So did I," Al says. "I mean, I had hoped they were, but - no, evidently not. I think it was the one named Envy."

"The shapeshifter?"

"The isadist ," Al corrects, crouching down to examine the crater and trying to ignore how his stomach churns helplessly, and how his body shivers.

Roy doesn't offer him any sort of consolation, any physical comfort, like a hand on the shoulder. Instead he crosses his arms and says, "Alphonse. Panicking will get you nowhere. We have to make certain of who the culprit is, before we will be able to locate Edward."

"I know," Al whispers, and rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand as Hawkeye returns, her squadron at her back. Roy glances at him and then draws her a few feet away, and even though Al listens intently, he can't make out what they're saying.

Roy returns after a few minutes, and Al twists back to look up at him. The man opens his mouth, and then pauses, and Al feels his shoulders slump as the fight goes out of him. "They didn't find anything, did they," he says bleakly. It's not a question. Roy shakes his head slowly and Al takes a deep, shaking breath, watching numbly as one of the blue-clad soldiers makes his way past Hawkeye to Roy and salutes sharply.

"Corporal?" Roy asks, surprised. "Do you have something to report?"

The soldier grins, a feral, spiteful thing; and in that split second Al iknows who he is. He opens his mouth to shout a warning, but the Envy-soldier is already moving, lashing out, and Al can only wonder at how ifast he is.

Roy isn't fast enough to dodge completely. He's struck a glancing blow on the jaw, but it's enough to knock him down; Al scrabbles to his feet as Envy resumes his preferred form and grins at him.

"Alphonse!" Hawkeye's voice, like a whip across his senses. "Get idown !" Envy turns back, looking almost quizzical, and Alphonse flings himself on his stomach and flat on the ground as her squadron open fire.

It seems to last for years, a horrifying round of noise and motion over his head. He screws his eyes shut, but he can itaste the smoke on the air, hear how close some of the bullets come. He only dares open them when the noise, and the echoes of the noise, stop; the tiny alleyway is filled with thick grey smoke, and his eyes water before a cool breeze blows it away.

Envy is one hell of a sight, pocked with holes and bleeding, torrentially, over the floor. He's still standing, and looks more and more pissed off by the second as the trails where bullets have blasted clean through his flesh start closing. Some are stuck in his body, and Al notices that his wounds are starting to heal iover them, trapping them inside. Hawkeye hisses, grabbing for her handguns, and Envy bares his teeth.

"You fucking iwhore ," he snaps, and spits more blood out. His hands are changing, fingers lengthening along with his teeth, and Alphonse wriggles across the ground towards him. "I'm going to ikill you, and I'm then I'm going to -"

Whatever he was planning to do is cut off by another gunshot, as Hawkeye nails him with pinpoint accuracy in the forehead. Envy keels over backwards, and Al half crawls, half staggers over to him. "Alphonse!" she shouts. "GET BACK HERE!"

Al doesn't listen, clapping his hands and pressing them to the spent shells covering the floor. He rears back, a serviceable blade in his hand, and scrambles towards Envy, who is blinking again.

"Tell me where my brother is," he commands, aiming the transmuted blade for Envy's throat.

"ALPHONSE!"

Envy grins, and lunges for Al. Al doesn't try to leap away; instead he drops his shoulder and simply slams into the Sin. Envy may be strong, and he may be dangerous, but Al is bigger, and sends him flying.

"You little iprick ," Envy sneers, straightening. Before Al can dodge, or move out of the way between the soldiers and Envy, the sin crashes into him; they go rolling, Envy connecting several nasty punches. Al cries out as the homunculus' hands close on his neck, jerking and thrashing underneath Envy.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!"

Al stiffens, then slumps back, still clawing at the hands around his throat, but Envy straightens and looks around to see Roy Mustang standing there.

"You wouldn't dare," he says lightly. "You'll roast the brat, and it'll hardly slow me down."

Roy smiles, icily. "You doubt my control?" he says, a challenging lilt to his voice. Envy opens his mouth for a reply, but then jerks as Lisa empties five bullets into the side of his head. "Or perhaps," Roy adds, as Envy's grip on Al's throat loosens and he collapses to one side, "I was serving as a distraction. Alphonse, come here _now._"

Alphonse sucks in a shuddering breath, then stumbles to his feet and staggers over to Roy. Envy comes back to life with a huge spasm and climbs to his feet, panting. "YOU -"

Roy pulls at the cuff of a glove, and narrows his eyes. Envy wavers, then growls. "I'm going to get you," he snarls. "All of you."

"Where the hell is imy brother , you CREEP?" Al spits, climbing to his feet.

Envy turns to him, with a grin that makes Al's heart turn cold.

"He's in a dark place," Envy says slyly. "But isn't he always?" And even as Lisa's men raise their guns, he turns and vanishes, faster than a human could run, down the alley.

There's shouting, and orders, and Hawkeye is snapping commands as the men take off in pursuit. They pound past Al in the alleyway, but he hardly notices them; his legs are trembling, and his blade falls out of his nerveless hands to clatter on the concrete just before his knees give out and he collapses to the ground. He wraps his arms over his chest, but that can't seem to stop his shivering. If he needed any further proof that it was Envy who'd taken Ed...

Footsteps behind him, and a hand descends on his shoulder, gripping tightly. "Pull yourself together, Alphonse," Roy says in a bracing tone. "We've driven him off, at least for now, and he's outsmarted himself. He's given us a clue as to Edward's location, so now we can start checking --"

"That's not what he meant," Alphonse interrupts, his voice barely more than a whisper.

With effort he lifts his head, and sees Roy blinking down at him, looking puzzled for a moment before his usual officer mask comes up. "Then what did he mean?"

"He was taunting me," Al says, and has to swallow. "He knows... I didn't tell you before... Niisan is blind."

"Blind?" Roy's voice sharpens, shocked. "Do you mean that Envy --"

"No... no, it wasn't Envy. It was the Gate," Al confesses, painfully. "In exchange for... my body, it took his eyes, and his..." His throat closes. Almost without his willing it, his hand moves to the side of his head, touching his ear, and then down to rub at his left arm.

There's silence, and when Al dares to look up, Roy's face reflects shock and horror. Somehow Al finds his voice again. "Don't you see, this is why I must find him," he says raggedly. "Niisan... he... gave up too much for me, he can't take care of himself any more. He relies on me -- I take care of him -- and I've failed him, I brought him here, I delivered him straight into Envy's hands, God only knows what that sadist is doing to him and it's i_all my fault --"_

"Alphonse!" Roy says forcefully, cutting off his flow of words. He puts his hands on both of Al's shoulders, forcing the boy to meet his eyes. When he's certain he has all of Al's attention, he says gravely, "This is not your fault, this is no-one's fault but that creature's. There was no way you could have foreseen what would happen, and no way you could have prevented it."

"But... I brought him to Central because I..." Al agonizes over it, all his guilt and frantic worry coming back in force.

"Did you force him to come here?" Roy asks seriously.

Al shakes his head. "No..." he admits. "Actually, it was his idea."

Roy sighs. "Whatever may have happened in the past, Edward is an adult; you are not ultimately responsible for him," he says. "Besides, if Envy truly had so much of a grudge against your brother as it seems, staying in Riesenburg might have been no safer. Given time, he might have followed you there."

Al looks up at him pitifully. "Maybe that would've been better," he says. "Central's too ibig , we will never find him in time, he'll die -"

"Alphonse," Roy interrupts, and the steel in his voice quiets the boy. "Don't be so quick to give up hope."

Al laughs bitterly in lieu of an answer, and picks himself back up off the ground as Lisa approaches and rips off a sharp salute. Roy watches him for a few seconds, face unreadable, before turning back to talk to her. Alphonse sticks his hands in his pockets and heads to the mouth of the alley, leaning against one of the walls.

He can't help but be afraid. Not for himself, though he knows Envy could come for him again at any time, but for his brother; what has Envy idone to him? Is he, maybe, curled up in some... warehouse or something, wanting Al but helpless to do anything?

His belly seethes, and he's grateful he already bought up all the food in it earlier on, when he found Ed gone. There's a muffled exclamation behind him, and he turns to see Roy and Hawkeye talking loudly, and feels his shoulders sag. They can't be talking about anything good. Someone taps him on the back, and he looks back sharply to see Havoc holding out a cardboard mug of coffee. The man has his trademark cigarette, but the usual joviality seems to have gone from his eyes; Al takes the coffee and dares, for a second, to hope...?

"We found something," Havoc says, leaning against the wall beside him. "You'd better ask Hawkeye."

* * *

Envy stalks down the narrow old streets of the sunken city, occasionally digging bullets absently out of his body, and iseethes . How dare they? How fucking idare they? How could ihumans get the better of ihim ?

He's consoled that he was right in one regard, at least; Alphonse is nowhere near the fighter his older brother was. If that dumb blonde whore and that useless bastard Mustang hadn't been there, the kid would've been his.

Well. He can always fetch the brat later on. For now, though, he supposes he'll have to make do with the crippled shrimp, however long he's got left. Not much, he knows; he was too careless with his toy, anticipating having another, and Edward's injuries are slowly killing him.

That's why it surprises the living daylights out of him when he stalks into the little room, shoulders squared and hands cocked into fists, to find the boy gone. He hasn't gone very far - hell, Envy can hear him, still, shuffling in the corridor that might have taken him to the surface, if he were lucky. No, that's not the problem; the problem is that the runt is moving at all. Envy smashed both his legs and broke his arm; his ribs are broken, collarbone fractured, left shoulder, above the automail, damaged. He's bleeding from dozens of gaping rents, all over his body, and yet he can still get up and walk?

Curious, his anger bubbling below the surface but suppressed for the time being, Envy leans on the wall and watches as Ed makes his way, slowly, up the corridor. He's made himself a cane of some sort, with a knife on the end, and 'repaired' his automail; despite himself, Envy curls a snarl in angry respect. Not many people could manage such a perfect transmutation in these circumstances. Still, it doesn't stop him from padding forward, and it gives him a warm buzz when Ed's metal hand tightens on the half support, half weapon. He doesn't bother with a taunt - the boy couldn't hear it anyway, it's ipointless , and besides, he's far too pissed off now. He simply lunges and snarls when Ed falls back, dodging the blow.

His temper flares when Ed swipes with his spear, the blade ripping through Envy's abdomen. iOw! Sharp, he thinks, as he catches hold of the shaft, just below the knife. He snaps it off easily - Ed must feel how the spear has gotten lighter, as his shoulders slump and he looks abruptly far too ispent - and steps closer, tearing the remains of the thing out of Ed's hand.

"You little shit," he snaps, in the shrimp's face. Ed cringes, but only weakly, and spits out a mouthful of blood when Envy drives his elbow into the center of the boy's chest. He's ibroken , and slumps to the floor when Envy drops him. It just makes Envy angrier. "Get up," he orders, kicking the boy in the hip. "Get the fuck up, hyper-runt!"

Ed doesn't respond, doesn't even try to shield himself from the blows, or curl into a little ball. Envy feels a moment of disconcertion - is this it? Has he killed the boy? - before the fury returns. "You ibastard !" he shrieks, dropping onto his knees and smashing Edward onto his back, to hurt him all the more. "Why the ifuck do you have to be so iweak ?"

Envy slaps him, trying to bring some spark of life, something, but the kid's head just rolls to the side, then back again. "This is nothing!" Envy snarls at him. "Nothing, you hear? What kind of pathetic creature could let this kill them?"

It's no good, there's no response; the boy can't see him, can't hear him, and that just makes the rage bubble over. With effort, he manages to divert the punch that would have smashed the boy's head open like a melon, to the floor beside his head; the stone cracks and splinters. "You little shit, you had everything!" he rants, uselessly. "You had everything and you threw it away! Why? Look at me, damn you, i_look at me!"_

No response; just the wheezing, wet-sounding breaths of the body underneath him. Teeth clenched, Envy forces himself to sit back on his heels, take his weight off the runt's chest. If he ever needed proof that he was a superior being, here it is bleeding out on the floor in front of him; for all that he was the golden child, Ed is helpless to save himself. He can't even knit his flesh back together, like Envy can do so easily.

A sharp pain nags in his chest, and Envy clutches at his it, fingers digging into his flesh. Damn those bullets, damn that blond whore, i_damn_ all humans anyway! With a snarl, he rips open his chest, ignoring the pain; it'll close up as soon as he finishes, anyway. He claws inward until he finds the bullet, and draws it out; his hand comes away stained with red.

For a long moment he stares at it, the bullet in his hand, then lifts his eyes beyond to stare at Ed's. Could he? Was it possible? He hasn't even contemplated anything of the kind for hundreds of years, back when the old bird was still doing experiments with the Red Stones.

He doesn't even think about it any longer, but acts on an impulse born of rage. He rips further into the wound, scattering the last of the bullets, fury overriding pain as he nears the seat of his own existence. Until he finds what he needs, and pulls back, panting for breath he doesn't normally take, hand clenched around a fistful of red.

The next part is simple, savage compensation for his pain. He's no Lust, nor Greed, but it's easy enough to harden his fingers into claws, to plunge them into the gaping, hollow eye sockets and dig into the tender flesh underneath. That gets a rise from the brat when nothing else would, and he spasms mindlessly under Envy, a wordless scream tearing from his throat. Envy grins, exultant, and crouches over the brat's head, and presses the Red Stones into the newly-wounded sockets.

The Red Stones. Concentrated human life, concentrated alchemical power... the source of power for the homunculi, their mass-changing powers, their almost infinite regeneration. In their purest form they were poison to humans, but they rarely remained in their purest form for long. What went around, came around, and Dante had theorized for a long time that they could be used in the regeneration of human flesh as well.

Now, he guesses, he's about to find out; Ed's body jerks under him again, and his head slams against the floor, another hoarse cry forced from his lips. His one remaining hand comes up to clutch at his head, to claw at his eyes, and Envy easily steps on it, pinning it to the floor.

Envy's own pain is brief and swiftly fading, forgotten under a rising tide of exultation. "Yes," he whispers. He kneels again, pinning the kid flat on the floor, and strokes his blood-soaked bangs away from his head as if in tenderness. "Now you know _our_ pain, the feeling of your fleshed ripped away from you and knitted anew according to another's will. Hurts, doesn't it?"

The reaction continues, a faint hissing and crackling that Envy can just make out over the steadily increasing cries of agony. Envy's hand clenches in Ed's hair, forcing him still, so that he may not try some desperate measure to stop it. He grins, all his teeth bared. "This is what your i_Father_ did to me, to all of us. I'll never forgive him -- never!"

Hohenheim's son is still lost, oblivious, but for the first time, Envy doesn't mind. Soon enough, he'll see. Soon enough, he'll learn.

* * *

~tbc.


	4. Chapter 4: give me myself again

Title: Precious Things, Chapter 4  
Rating: M  
Author's Notes: Co-written with Kaltia; sequel to Embodied.

* * *

give me life

give me pain

give me myself again

* * *

He comes up out of the darkness slowly, swimming in a sea of disorientation. Awareness of his body filters back gradually, in prickles and aching pangs. _Everything_ aches, like he's been sick with a fever. Was he sick? Is that why he feels so strange, so... raw?

He tries to sort through his recent memories, alarm struggling with confusion. Vibration, motion, thunderous roar. Cold and hot and cold again. Hands. Impact. Pain. Too much of that, it all blends together. The last he remembers is a feeling like he was standing on the bank of a flooding river, feeling the ground erode underneath his feet, and a hot red tide rising to swallow him.

Then... his breathing shifts, as the memory bursts on him, growing erratic with remembered fear. Sharp spikes in his eyes, just like -- _worse than --_ he'd lost them in the Gate in the first place. Then -- _oh God, oh God -- _he'd swear it felt like boiling lead poured into his eyes. (For all he knew, it might have been, but _why wasn't he dead?) _That had been enough to bring him back, almost, from the edge, as the scalding pressure worsened and worsened until...

What happened then?

_Why am I still alive?_

The two questions are equally pressing. He _is_ alive, as much as he ever was; he can feel nerves up and down his body reporting in, and he's _stiff, _ stiff as a board, every muscle drawn and knotted tight when he tries to move. He could have sworn he remembered something sliding around in his chest, slicing holes inside of him, but nothing seems to be...

He is. Lying down, on his back, on the cold stone floor. But his head is lifted off of it, lying on... something cloth. Someone's lap? Someone's hand, buried in his hair; the other, brushing spider-gentle over his face. He twitches, trying to make his reluctant body move, and opens his eyes.

_He opens his eyes. _What...

He can see. He can see? He has eyes to open. The world is blurry, dark and full of shadows, and everything he sees is colored red. But he can _see._

A blurry shape looms over him, and the lap he's in shifts around; he blinks, forcing himself to focus, to pick out details. Short, pale, spiky hair, framing a paler face. A familiar face. Round, light-colored eyes. Cheekbones, nose, chin, and they're all familiar, he _knows_ this face, even though he's never seen it before. It's all a piece with the lap supporting his head, the hands framing his face, stroking his hair out of his eyes.

"Al," he says. He can feel his mouth move, but he hears nothing. So. That's still the same, then. His brother bends over him, eyes brightening, and says something. "I can't hear you," he says breathlessly. "Al, what's -- you found a way? You found a method? Where is this place -- how did you find me -- how did you --"

He has no idea what he's saying, words scrambling to fall out of his mouth. Al smiles down at him, eyes shining, and places a finger across his lips. He stutters to a halt, confusion battling joy; how is Al here? _Where_ is here?

The hand that has been caressing his forehead stops, tangling in his hair, and the lap under his head shifts, then moves away. Still smiling down at him, Al smashes his head against the stone floor.

* * *

"There's a trail?" Al asks breathlessly, gaze alternating hopefully between Roy and Lisa. Lisa doesn't meet his eyes, instead quietly re-loading one of her handguns, but Roy nods.

"I should warn you, Alphonse, that it isn't very distinct," Roy says quietly, and Al blinks at him. "Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

Black Hayate whines at Hawkeye's heels, and she crouches to pet him on the head. Carefully she removes a small clear bag from her inner pocket - Al recognises it as one of the transparent plastic bags she brought to remove evidence from the apartment - and reaches into it with a pair of tweezers, pulling out a spent bullet, lightly spattered with blood. "What's going on?" he asks quietly.

"The homunculi may or may not have a scent of their own," Roy replies calmly, his hands in his pockets, "but bullets certainly do. Hayate is well-trained as a tracking dog; he should well be able to follow the trail of gunpowder."

"Oh," Al whispers, as Hayate trots towards the mouth of the alley, nose to the ground. He pauses and looks back, as if urging them to follow him, and without another word, they do.

They find a few more shells as they follow the alley, Hayate busily sniffing along the stone, and a few spatters of blood. Most of the time, though, Al can't see any trail to follow at all, and he only hopes that Hayate knows something they don't.

It seems to take forever, although Al knows how deceptive distances are when you don't know the territory. After a while there are no more bullets, no blood at all, and Hayate's sniffing progress is slowing. Al grows more and more anxious with every pause, and frustration and anger seethe in the pit of his stomach.

He finds Roy by his side, suddenly, and tries not to jump. The man looks down at him as they walk, with an expression like there was something he had to say, but it was a while before he could seem to find the words for it.

"Have you considered," Roy says softly, unpressingly, "it may not be possible for us to get there in time."

Al clenches his jaw, and his eyes burn. "How could I not think about it?" he whispers back harshly. "I've hardly thought about anything else today. What if I'm too late, if I was slow, could I have fixed things, could I have stopped him..."

Roy clears his throat. "It might have been too late from the very hour he went missing," he says, and it's hard to tell whether he's trying to offer consolation, or brutal truth. "If that's the case... what will you do?"

"I'll find Envy and kill him, of course," Al snaps. "There's no way I'm going to let him get away with this. I'll hunt him down and I'll kill him if I have to deconstruct every molecule in his body to do it." He stomps along for a moment, fuming, before adding in a lower voice, "One way or another, I'm going to bring Niisan home. I won't leave... his body with that bastard to..."

He has to stop, and even though he is _not_ going to cry, he rubs at his eyes to push back the itching there. They've come to a bad part of town, and have stopped outside a narrow stone building so fire-ravaged that it's impossible to tell whether it used to be a store or a house or what.

Hayate led the way inside, but now the young dog is running about in circles, sniffing frantically at every crack in corner, before abandoning it to check the next one. He comes to sit by Hawkeye's feet, and yaps at her; she kneels and pulls out the sample bullet for him again. He sniffs, then goes to follow some invisible line across the floor, but once again falls to running in circles. The trail, it seems, ends here.

"Now what?" Roy asks. He directs the question at Hawkeye, but it's Al who hunches his shoulders a bit. "Is there any other part to this building?"

Hawkeye shakes her head. "We're checking now, sir, but none is apparent," she says. "The top few floors have fallen in, and there's nothing leading out the back."

"What about subterranean?" Roy asks.

Hawkeye shrugs, then seems to remember her professional demeanor. "There's no sign of stairs, trapdoors, or any other access, sir."

Suddenly, Al remembers the air shaft in the apartment; the cover, broken open from the inside. "There wouldn't necessarily need to be," he interrupts. Both officers turn to him in some surprise. "He can change shape; he could probably get through any size opening..."

"But he couldn't have brought Edward that way," Hawkeye points out.

Al shuts his eyes, trying to think. "Most of Fifth Laboratory was underground," he recalls. "But when some of the walls were broken open, there were tunnels that led beyond the grounds. Maybe..."

"You think there's some kind of underground network from place to place?" Roy asks him, startled. "One that he's used in the past and still knows?"

"Underground," Al says. He opens his eyes, filled with excitement. " 'Someplace dark.' He gave us the clue himself, after all!"

"That's what I _said_," Roy says, sounding irritated. Al ignores him, brushing past them both as he follows Hayate's trail to the place where it ends. Carefully, he knocks on the walls, then on the floor; it feels like solid stone to him, but he's not so easily deterred.

He looks at the wall and the floor, trying to judge by eye, then claps his hands together and backs away. "Stand back," he tosses over his shoulder, then slaps his hands to the floor.

The ground trembles, the stone writhing as the alchemical energy enervates it, then begins to melt away under his hands. At first it just forms a deepening pit, like a crater, with the stone piling up at the edges; then all at once, a dark hole opens up in the center of the floor and widens, releasing a sudden gasp of damp, stale air into the room.

There's a gasp from behind him; paying it no mind, Al takes a minute to finish up the new entrance, smoothing the edges and using the leftover stone to create a stair-set leading down. By the time he's done, and gets up from the floor, Hawkeye is already outside, marshaling their men into some kind of order.

Al stands at the edge of the entrance, feeling the cold and dank waft up to strike him in the face. _Someplace dark,_ he thinks. "I'm going," he announces.

"Wait." Roy holds up one hand to stop him, glancing around the fire-ravaged building. "A light will be necessary, I think --"

Another clap, a second reaction, and Al's created a lamp and wick from the burned charcoal. "Can you give me a light?" he asks, and manages a smile. Roy returns it, seeming perfectly at ease, and snaps his fingers. The spark leaps from his fingertips, a thin line traveling through the air, and the lamp sputters to life.

By this time, Hawkeye has readied the troops. Al, with his lantern, starts down the stairs, but Hawkeye puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him back. "Wait, Alphonse," she says, shaking her head. "It's best not to charge into an unknown situation rashly. You're not even armed."

"I'm an alchemist," Al argues, pulling away from her hand, and starting down the stairs. "I'm always armed."

"Al, wait a minute --" Roy and Hawkeye both start in pursuit of the young man, following him into the tunnel. Stone walls rise up and close about them as they shift from the filtered indoor daylight of above, to the dim and uncertain lamplight underground. Al is already standing in the mouth of the tunnel, light raised high to try and get a good look.

Hawkeye mutters something uncomplimentary about men in general and alchemists in particular, and Roy just shakes his head as he takes off into a jog to catch up with Al. "Alphonse, wait," he says catching up with the younger man. "Wait until the men have a chance to check out some of the tunnel and secure it. It's a warren down here, you have no way of knowing which way to go anyway."

Al's shoulders sag in disappointment, and he starts to nod, opening his mouth to say something. Roy is only glad that Al will listen to reason -- if for no other reason than he wants to keep track of that light. Although it's not actually as dark underground as he thought it would be; sunlight must be bouncing down from airshafts somewhere --

The oppressive dark is suddenly split by a scream. Roy startles, whipping around to face the threat, ready to snap -- and then freezes, as the voice hits home; a voice he knows, hasn't heard in over a year.

Al has already dropped the lantern, and broken into a run down the tunnel.

* * *

His new-found vision blurs as his ill-gained eyes water, and he opens his mouth to voice a protest. Al grins at him, softly, and leans over the kiss him on the forehead; Ed flinches and his reward is a slap that makes his cheek burn and his head ring.

"You're not Al," he whispers, and squeezes his eyes shut. "You're not."

For a moment, there's a cool hand on his face, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. Ed cringes from the touch, but it doesn't turn immediately to pain; instead it remains gentle and soothing.

He knows, rationally, that this is not Al. It can't be. His mind frantically scrabbles for an explanation, but before it can reach one, the hand withdraws, and begins unbuttoning the tattered remains of his shirt. He cautiously opens his eyes, but 'Al' isn't watching him; expressionless, he shucks the remnants of Ed's shirt off and touches his chest with long, pale fingers. His mouth moves as he says something, and a little bit of tired frustration wells up in Ed when he can't catch it.

Then, not-Al lightly brushes one of those spidery fingers over one of his nipples.

Ed freezes for a heartbeat, staring up at the predatory expression on this... thing 's face with a growing sense of horror. The creature licks its lips and leans closer, teeth bared - and they're sharper than they have a right to be. Ed tastes bile in the back of his throat and realises that he's shaking, but that the movement doesn't hurt so much; he's not so broken as before, and maybe now he can fight this thing? Because he will not let that happen to him again.

He hesitates before doing anything, while those fingers pinch his nipple painfully, then twist it sharply. He lets out a wordless cry of pain, and the creature smiles thinly. It's an expression he would never see on Al's face, and coupled with what this thing is going to do to him, he only feels a small amount of regret in cocking his metal fist.

He lashes out with his lone remaining arm, a solid blow that fractures the creature's cheekbone and makes its head twist oddly on its neck. His heart in his mouth, he punches it again, and a third time before it grips his wrist and squeezes. The wrist crumbles under its grip, and metal simply folding meekly, and while Ed can do nothing but stare at the strength involved, the creature grips what remains of his upper arm above the automail and bends it. It breaks with a SNAP Ed can feel throughout his body and an accompanying explosion of pain that nearly knocks him out again.

Instead he clings determinedly to consciousness, but when it drops his arm, screams aloud. The heavy weight of his useless automail pulling at the broken limb is too much, and he sags pitifully to the left. The feel of breaking bones is so familiar, connecting eyes-open and eyes-closed. He realizes with a mental jolt that his bones _were_ broken, and now somehow they are not -- and this is no greater service to him than to allow this creature to break them all over again. He almost blanks out its presence, briefly numb with shock, until it begins unbuttoning his pants.

That's enough to jolt him back to reality, remembering a different time, a different place, where he stood before a huge stone door with only two limbs missing and said, I would give anything for Al . Before he knew how a black limb slithering across his belly could feel, sticky and clammy, or one forced into his mouth to gag his desperate screams. He bucks wildly beneath it, not caring about the pain from his broken arm, his world reduced down to that little voice inside whispering relentlessly please God, not again not againnotagain -

- and in the end, as with last time, all he can do is scream.

* * *

"_Envy!"_ The shout echoes through the large, stone chamber, and Al squints into the dimness, trying to make out the shapes in the shadows. "Envy, I know you're here!"

The screaming cuts off -- abruptly, so sharply that Al's heart leaps into his throat. Desperately, he forges ahead. "It's me you want, isn't it?" he yells. "That's why you came to get me!"

His eyes are adjusting to the dim light of the chamber, slowly. Light is coming in from somewhere -- probably sunlight from the surface somewhere -- but although he searches the dimness desperately for any sign of his brother or Envy, he can't make anything out.

He takes a deep breath. "Well, you can have me," he says, throat dry. "You want me, you can have me. I won't struggle or resist, I swear. Just -- just let my brother go."

"How generous." A mocking voice comes out of the shadows, and a moment later, like he's risen up from the stone, Envy appears. He's wearing Al's form, perfect down to the last detail of the clothes he wears, and Al's eyes go wide to see that cruel, sharp-toothed grin on his own features.

His heart is pounding, but he stands his ground, hands clenching by his sides. "Let my brother go," he repeats, "and I'll go with you without a fight."

"Nice that you offer, kid." Still smirking, Envy strolls forward, until he's within an arms' length of Al. Al tenses, as Envy looks him up and down and laughs.

Without warning, the homunculus' arm shoots out and he grabs Al by the shoulders, hauling him in close. Al stumbles as his feet are dragged forward. "But too bad for you," Envy continues, grin widening, "I don't bargain. I want you, I'll _take_ you, and have my fun breaking you bo -"

His words cut off, abruptly, the air leaving him. He blinks, seemingly confused, then looks from Al's face down to his hands, which have driven the long, flat blade between his ribs.

"You..." he starts to say, before Al's hands rip sideways and tear the blade out again. The sharp metal edge of the steel blade cuts through his heart, and he stumbles back as he feels death overtake him.

Al knows it won't be for long, but as soon as the homunculus falls, he's leaping forward, clapping his hands around the heavy steel blade he transmuted before entering the cavern. It elongates in his hands to a sharp, narrow pike -- much like the one his brother always used -- and he slams the point down through Envy's chest until he feels the sharp tip grate against the stone floor beneath.

One more reaction, and weapon and floor have melded solidly together, transfixing the homunculus on the pole like a butterfly on a pin. That should buy him some time, he thinks; he's not sure how much, but he turns his back on the Sin and stumbles in the direction he _thinks_ Envy came from. Ed will be over there somewhere, and he has to find him as soon as possible, has to reassure himself that the abrupt cessation of Ed's voice didn't mean that --

Behind him, Envy comes back out of death with a lunging gasp, back arching as one hand scrabbles at the pole, trying to pull it out and free himself. After a few moments of failure he snarls, raising his head to look down his body at the intruding pole. With his heels scrabbling on the stone floor for leverage, he slams the heel of his palm hard enough against the metal shaft to snap it a few inches from where it emerges from his chest.

Another lurch, and he's on his feet, swaying drunkenly and clutching the metal shaft in one hand. The dim light-level in the cavern is no obstacle for him, and he easily catches sight of Alphonse, scrambling over the piles of debris and refuse in search of his brother. He stalks after him, changing back into his own form as he does, step growing more steady as his body regenerates the last of the damage. "You little fucker," he hisses, eyes glowing fiercely. "Do you have any idea where I'm going to shove this pole of yours?"

Al looks over his shoulder at the approaching homunculus, and dives for the floor, clapping his hands to transmute himself a new weapon. Before he can complete the reaction, Envy is on him, and they go rolling and tumbling over the floor, each of them struggling to gain the upper hand.

Envy manages to get the metal bar around Al's throat, and rolls on top, slamming Al to the floor; Al jolts forward, putting his hands out to brace himself, and the charge crackles into the stone. "I don't need you anymore," Envy hisses in his ear, hands tightening on the metal rod. "I'll enjoy having you dead as well as alive --"

Al makes a gurgling noise, as his chin is jerked up, but he keeps his hands on the floor; his fingers twitch, and a moment later Envy has to release his grip and throw himself backwards as a stone spike thrusts out of the floor and over Alphonse's shoulder. Al doesn't waste a second, but grabs onto the metal bar as it falls, and transmutes it again even as he rolls to his feet. The knife he forms out of it is smaller, now, with half of the material left behind, but it'll serve well enough to kill.

Except, Al is coming to realize with a sick dread, even if he can manage to kill Envy -- _again --_ it won't do him any good. He can kill Envy a dozen times and the Sin will just come back again, but Envy only has to kill _him_ once.

But there's no retreating from this spot, not without his brother, and with a wordless shout Al lunges forward, clenching the knife in his hand as he leaps towards Envy. To Sin just grins at him, light flickering in his violet eyes as he ducks and dodges, evading Al's blows easily.

Al overestimates his reach, and misses a blow, stumbling forward; Envy's hand grabs his hair, tangling, and slams his head down on the Sin's hard knee. White sparks flare behind Al's eyes, but he holds grimly onto the moment, and brings the knife down hard and fast to sink into Envy's thigh.

They stumble apart, for a moment separated, and Al fights to clear his head as Envy negligently reaches down and pulls the knife from his leg, tossing it aside in a spatter of blood. "Is that really all you got?" Envy sneers at him, and Al clenches his teeth, panting to get his wind back. "I really thought you'd defend your brother with a little more zeal."

"You'll regret taking him, you freak," Al spits out; now weapons, he brings his hands up in a ready posture, and takes a cautious step back. Envy's fast, but so is he; as long as he keeps his footing steady, he should be able to take on any attack that comes.

Envy tosses his head back, and laughs, a sound that sends echoes chasing all around the cavern. "You think you can make me regret anything, little boy?" he throws at Al, and plants one hand on his hip in an expression of mocking casualness. "Even if you were half the alchemist your brother was, you wouldn't stand a chance of leaving a dent on me. You're too weak, little better than a mama's boy. You aren't a killer --"

"But _I_ am," -- a new voice rings out across the cavern, and before either Envy or Al can turn to see where it comes from, the Sin is enveloped in flames.

The fringe of the explosion throws Al to the ground, and he comes back to himself with a frizzing burn in his skin and a ringing in his head on the ground several yards away. He wonders dazedly why Mustang wasn't more precise; and then, as he raises his eyes again, he realizes that he _was._

He's seen Mustang use his flames in combat before; seen them wrap around the rebel Bard from the train, seen them knock his brother about the combat ring, even been on the target end of them himself before. But he'd never realized that on all those occasions, Mustang was holding back his power; seeking only to shock or injure, never to kill. He's never seen the fire wrap around someone with such focused purpose and collapse inwards, lighting up a body as surely as he lit the wick in the lantern in the stairway above. Envy is burning, not just his hair or his clothes but his skin and his flesh, and the reek of cooking meat washes over him even from here.

Even that's not enough to stop him, though, and -- a sick wave of nausea rises up in Al's stomach as the Sin continues to move, stumbling for a few steps before falling to its knees, then struggling to rise again. Already the flames are battling with the unnatural regenerative power of the homunculus, and Al can see the light flaring and subsiding as flesh regrows, quenching flame, and then the flame spreads to the new flesh.

"Alphonse!"

The sound of his name breaks Alphonse out of his horrified fascination, and he looks over to see Mustang and Hawkeye standing in the mouth of the tunnel; Roy's hand is outstretched, and the back of it still glows red. His mouth is set, eyes narrowed with concentration as he bends his will to keeping the fire going strong. Hawkeye hurries past him, a few figures in blue along with her, and Alphonse sees blurrily that they're all people he knows.

"Alphonse, _where is Edward?"_ Hawkeye snaps, keeping her gun up and pointed levelly at the man-shaped torch in front of them.

"I don't know!" he blurts out, struggling dizzily towards his feet. "Somewhere... over there!" He waves a hand behind him, towards the piles of debris he'd been searching before Envy tackled him.

"That'll have to do," she replies, mouth tightening, and Alphonse blinks. She jerks her chin at the soldiers, and they spread out in a three-point line between the burning homunculus and the direction Al waved.

A red crackle of alchemy snaps and sparks out, and the flames surrounding Envy begins to die as Roy comes to stand by them.

"Next time, Alphonse, kindly _wait_ for your backup, or else don't bother to bring it along at all," Roy tells him, as he takes up a stance beside and to the front of Al, and raises his arm to snap again. Al nods dumbly, and notices with dazed eyes that Roy's hand is shaking slightly with strain.

None of that strain shows in his voice, though, as he addresses the panting, clawing, gasping hulk in an almost conversational tone. "Shall we continue?"

"You..." Envy raises his face to them, locked in a rictus of hatred, and Al flinches back. Mustang doesn't budge, nor does Hawkeye's aim waver. "You're kidding yourself if you think you can protect them from me... _or_ yourselves, I'll kill every one of you --"

"Oh? You think you can?" Roy narrows his eyes, and raises his hand a bit higher. Envy lunges, Roy snaps, and the flames catch him in mid-air; the force of the explosion rocks him backwards even as the fire digs into his flesh again.

It washes over him and flickers out, and Envy's body shivers as it passes through death again and revives. There's a scorch mark trailing out along the stone behind him, with his shadow imprinted in it. As soon as his face reforms enough for him to speak, he spits out a vicious torrent of abuse that makes even one of the officers whistle.

Al manages to look sideways fast enough to recognize Havoc; then, brain snapping into gear, he drops to his knees and transmutes a new weapon from the floor. He's learned by now not to underestimate the homunculus, and he doesn't want to be unarmed if Envy comes after him again.

"After enough deaths, even a homunculus will die," he says aloud, and he's not sure whether he's talking to Envy or Roy. Roy's eyes flicker sideways at him, but he doesn't turn away from the enemy.

Envy pulls himself to his feet, eyes blazing and teeth clenched, and then -- "Burn _this,_ if you can!" he snarls, and with a crackle suddenly it's Hughes leaping forward, drawing a knife as he moves.

Roy's eyes widen, and he hesitates, but Hawkeye does not; she fires three times in quick succession, and it's enough to send Envy stumbling. Roy recovers his equilibrium, and snaps again; the fires wash over the false Hughes, and burn his image away. Envy comes up, shuddering, and when he takes his hands away from his face he's Ed, Ed as he used to be, golden and whole. Al is the one who cries out as the flames wash over his brother, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe through his mouth as the smell of cooking meat fills his nostrils again.

"We could do this all day," Roy says imperturbably, and if not for the increase in his breathing, and small beads of sweat on his brow, Al would have thought he was back in his office, signing papers. "I'm given to understand the lifespan of a homunculus is very long. Do you truly want to trade all that for the sake of petty revenge?"

Envy's glittering eyes move from Roy, to Hawkeye, to Al, containing such vicious hatred that Al shudders inside. He draws himself up, and there's a click as Hawkeye snaps the hammer back, and Roy raises his hand a little higher, but Envy steps back, not forward.

"I'm only sorry," he says, and his voice is thick with hate and malice, "that I won't be around to see what you make of your scavenging."

He turns and runs, and for a moment Al wants to scream at Roy to snap; to fry the bastard, to kill him so he can pin him down and kill him again and again and again, however many times it takes until he shrivels and dies for real. But the blood drying on his clothes and the reek of burned flesh in the air, all against his will, hold his tongue still in his mouth. Envy is right, he thinks distantly.

Now Envy is gone, melted into the shadows. Roy, face set, lowers his hand, and Hawkeye eases off the trigger, with a low sigh that Al wouldn't have heard if he were just a little further away.

Roy is giving orders, he can hear them at a distance through the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears. The soldiers are spreading out along the wall, Hawkeye leading them, securing the room against Envy's possible return. None of that matters to Al; now that Envy's gone reaction is setting in, and his heart begins to pound and his body to shake as he turns back to the question of _where is Ed?_

He told Hawkeye Ed must be somewhere over _here_, and he turns back to search in that area, scrambling and intent. He gets nowhere until behind him somewhere, Roy snaps again, and the light level in the cavern rises and stays high. Then a glitter catches his eye, over near the corner of a crumbled stone wall; a flash of silver metal, and a glint of gold.

He nearly trips and falls on his face as he races over, feet sliding and stumbling over the rotted remains of a jumbled pile of books. He stops when he reaches the top of the pile, the glitter resolving itself into a body, and lets out a low cry.

His brother is alive. He's alive and for a moment that's all Al can hold in his mind, truth to settle the terror that had been gnawing away at him despite everything. He'd been afraid, so afraid that Envy killed him, even at the last minute as he burst into the cave. But Ed's _alive, _shivering and breathing in fast, constant pants like a wounded animal.

Unfortunately, that's about the best thing Al can find to say for him. As the sheer relief of finding him begins to wear off, the other details begin to sink in; too many of them all at once for Al to absorb. Ed's automail limbs are in ruins, he notes with dismay; his right arm ends in jagged splinters at the elbow, and the left hand and wrist has been crushed. One of his legs appears oddly deformed and melted, and Al can scarcely comprehend what could have happened to make it like that. He's dressed in nothing but drying blood and bruises, although when Al searches frantically he can't find where the blood is coming from, only series of closed, ugly red lines.

The bruises are most terrifying of all; huge purple and black patches that swell under Ed's skin and deform the shape of his body and bones. The worst of them lie over Ed's chest and abdomen, and Al's mind rachets over everything he knows of medicine, and internal bleeding; he hears himself whisper "oh, no, oh no," even as he reaches out to touch Ed with trembling hands, to try and assure himself that he's real.

"Calm down, Alphonse." Roy's voice in his ear makes him jump, and he twists frantically around to see Roy next to him, eyes intent and face hard. "He couldn't be breathing like that with a punctured lung."

"Colonel..." Roy starts to reach forward, and without thinking Al moves to place his body between Ed and Mustang. He knows it's ungrateful of him, when Mustang just saved both their lives, but the thoughts are getting all jumbled up in his mind and all he can think of is how angry Ed is going to be that Al let the Colonel see him like this.

"Alphonse," Roy says again, and his voice is gentler, now. "I've seen worse."

"That's not the point." Al has to take a deep steadying breath, before he can go on. "Niisan always... he wouldn't want..." In his scattered state, he can't find a way to explain it without giving offense. In the end he just shakes his head. "He'll need me more," he says.

He looks back over his shoulder, plading for understanding, and after a moment Roy nods, and steps back.

He can't tell if Ed is conscious or not; Envy must have hit him to stop him from screaming earlier, but from his reactions Ed could either be in a troubled sleep, or awake and afraid.

Of course, Al thinks. His brother has no way of knowing that he's safe now. The need to reassure him overrides Al's fears about aggravating his injuries, and Al slides to his knees beside Ed's body and reaches out to grip him by his left shoulder; he hopes Ed is aware enough to recognize the old signal between them, nothing more complicated than _I am here. You are not alone. _"Niisan..."

As soon as his hand closes on Ed's shoulder, though, his brother jerks to life under the touch. His head jerks up even as his back arches, yanking away from the touch. For a moment Al is looking into his brother's face, filthy matted hair over a mask of swelling bruises, and then Ed opens his eyes.

Al finds himself staring, mind unable to comprehend what he is seeing. This isn't possible, Ed's eyes are gone -- Al _knows_, he saw the holes they left behind every day for almost a year now. And yet here his brother is, familiar golden orbs back in their place, darting from one object to another, the pupils constricting with the light. As if his emotions weren't turbulent enough, he's suddenly doused with an equal measure of joy and confusion. "Niisan! Your eyes --"

"I thought you said he was blind," Roy says from behind Al, causing him to flinch. The older man sounds shaken. "I thought you said the transmutation took his eyes."

"He was! They _did!_ I don't understand... Somehow, Envy must have..." It's too much to feel. Al pushes through the haze of emotions and reaches out to grab his brother's hand, clutching the broken metal hand between both of his own. "I can't believe..." The _how_ and _when _and _why_ suddenly aren't important, all that matters is that Ed's sight has been restored, and Ed can see him now, Ed can _see_ him. He smiles, feeling tears prick hotly in his own eyes, and tugs Ed's hand closer to his heart.

The reaction is not what he'd expected. Ed's hand jerks against his, like a burn reflex, and a harsh sound forcecs itself out of Ed's throat, a cry made dry and strangled by too much strain on the voice. It takes Al a moment to process that instead of reaching out for him, Ed is struggling to pull away, scrambling to find leverage against the heaps of debris, and that every movement of his arm sends a shuddening flinch through the rest of his body.

The confusing welter of emotions resolves suddenly, into cold hurt and rejection, a lack of understanding. "Brother, why?" he whispers, and drops Ed's hand, shifting on his heels to reach over until he can stroke Ed's face. He does so gently, fearful of the hurts, but he needs the contact, needs to understand. "Are you -- angry at me?" He has every right to be, Al thinks; for failing him, for leaving him in this place for a day and a night while _that creature_ tormented him --

But when Al lets his fingers carefully touch Ed's face, brushing away a clot of dried blood beneath one of his new eyes, Ed only flinches away from his hand. His expression, beneath the bruises, is fearful and -- resigned -- and when he finds he can't move away, he grits his teeth and closes his eyes.

"Won't look," Ed says, and even Al has a hard time understanding the words under the distortions and hoarseness. "Won't play your game."

And suddenly it hits Al what's happened, why Ed is flinching from him, and his earlier resolution goes up in a burst of rage. He wants to turn to Roy and tell him to go after Envy, run him down and drag him back, and burn him, _burn_ him as many times as it takes.

* * *

Roy has been hanging back, trying to be respectful of the brothers' wishes, although worry eats at him like a sore. He is only glad, now, that he made the decision not to tell his troops what exactly they were searching for, only a missing person. He is glad now that he decided to bring only personal trusted men with him into the cavern, sending the others out to cover all the exits. The extra support might have mattered, might have made the difference between fighting off Envy and losing to him... but then there would be no way he could have hidden this from their prying eyes.

They need to get out of this place, need to get Fullmetal out of here and somewhere safe, somewhere secure where he can get the medical attention he so obviously needs. He's counting on Alphonse to be able to handle his brother; he's seen enough cases of soldiers in shock, driven to some breaking point, until they can no longer tell friend from foe and will fight hysterically against even well-meaning allies, denying themselves even the care they need to survive. From the glimpse he got of Edward before Alphonse blocked his view, Fullmetal is long past that point.

Alphonse sits back on his heels, scrubbing fiercely at his face, and Roy takes a step forward. The boy's face is wretched, and as Roy looks between him and what little he can see of Fullmetal's body over his shoulder, a chill of concern washes over him. "Is something wrong?" he asks quietly.

"You have to ask that?" Al's tone is ragged, but he takes a gulp of air and steadies himself, and when he looks up his eyes are clear and his expression steady. "I can't..."

"Does he not recognize you?" Roy's concern intensifies; he can't imagine a world in which Fullmetal forgets his own brother. If that's the case, is there anything left of the Edward they knew to save?

"I... I'm not sure... that's the problem," Al says, and looks down. He continues, more quietly, "When I came into the cavern -- Envy was wearing my face. I think he might have been torturing Nii-san while looking like me. I think he even might have..."

He trails off, much to Roy's annoyance; he doubts the reality of the situation is anything worse than what his imagination can paint in. Or his experience. With a sigh, he moves forward and crouches down beside Alphonse, casting a sharp eye over Fullmeta's huddled form. Bad, he assesses, but not life-threatening, at least not immediately. Anything that hasn't killed him yet, won't kill him anytime soon. The massive bruising on his abdomen hints at internal injuries, but from the way he's moving and holding himself, that doesn't seem to be the case. He'll know more once he gets the boy to a doctor, he thinks, starting to shrug off his coat.

"Colonel, you can't --" Al begins to object, but this time, Roy overrides him.

"We have to move him, Alphonse," he tells him, peeling off his coat and shrugging it around. "We can't treat him down here. Whatever happened to him, he'll deal with it and recover once he knows he's among friends."

"Is he?" Al asks thinly, and Roy looks up sharply to meet Al's gaze. There's a certain bleak hopelessness in his gaze that goes beyond this new blow fate has dealt to them, and Roy is startled -- and somewhat offended -- to realize that he is its source. "Will he be among friends?"

Roy sighs again, and doesn't answer right away, as he leans forward to drape the coat over Edward. He really ought to wait for a stretcher, but that would draw far too much attention, attention they can't afford. Moving slowly and carefully, he tucks the coat in under Fullmetal's body, tucking him into a bundle that he can pick up and carry without worrying too much about jarring him.

Edward's eyes fly open again as he feels himself shifted, startling Roy; he'd thought the boy was out for the count. He sees Ed start to try to move, and draw a hissing breath when he finds himself restrained by the fabric of the coat. His eyes search over Roy's face, then dart over his shoulder to find Al there, and the fearful look is replaced by one of shock and confusion.

"Edward," Roy says, feeling a little foolish when he knows the boy can't hear him, but he has to do _something._ "You're going to be all right. I'm going to take you someplace safe."

Edward is watching his face closely as he speaks, but doesn't respond, only change in his breathing pattern indicating that he's paying any attention at all. Roy is disturbed by the pattern of blood across his face; almost like dried tears. He takes a moment to prepare himself, checking to see if the coat is as secure as it can be, before gathering the bundle in his arms and pushing to his feet.

He's startled first by how heavy, and then successively how light the boy is; so different from how he remembers. It seems like half his body is metal, now; and he can feel the splintered ends of shattered automail casings poking through the coat to scratch his arms. And yet for all the metal, he's too small, much too small. Much too young for this, and Roy feels a pang in his chest that turns like a knife. As if there was any age that would make this kind of brutalization acceptable; it's always a horror, and yet the horror only multiplies when it acts itself out on children. He hefts Fullmetal in his amrs, trying to gauge a step-pattern that will jar him the least, and turns to face Alphonse.

Ed sighs, his head rolling back, and his eyes flutter momentarily shut. He says something, but Roy can't make it out; the garbled tones make something turn in his stomach, and he looks to Al with an arched eyebrow. "Did you catch that?" he asks.

Al looks like he's about to cry, or laugh, or go into a fit of screaming hysterics. Roy thinks he'd rather prefer the first over either of the others. "He said..." He has to take another breath, to push whatever-it-is fit back down, and says, "He said your timing has gotten better."

"Ah." Roy allows a small smile on his face, although Edward isn't watching, then takes a breath and begins to climb over the piles of debris towards the entrance.

Al keeps pace with him, eyes fixed anxiously on his brother's face. "Colonel?" he says after a minute, in a tiny voice that reminds Roy of how young he sounded all those years he inhabited the armor.

"Mmm."

"You said you'd seen worse?" Al's eyes flickered up to meet his, hopeful, anxious. _You've seen worse,_ his expression asks, _so you know what to do, right? You know how to fix something like this._

"Yes, I have." He doesn't say the rest of the thought, though; he's seen worse, but none who lived. He's seen the worst that war and horror can do to a human being, even done some of it himself; and while it's truly amazing what the human body can survive, too many of those survivors later would only succumb to shock or infection or simple despair. The shell of flesh that cradles the spark of human life is far too fragile; even one crack can let in a draft that will blow a human being cold and still.

Alphonse doesn't need to know that, he thinks. Fullmetal is a fighter, always has been. If he's survived this much, he'll survive the rest. Of that, Roy has no doubt. Won't allow himself to doubt.

His coat is going to be ruined, he notes distantly. The bloodstains will never come out, and the shattered metal edges are shredding the lining. Fullmetal is filthy, terribly so, and the smell takes Roy right back to battlefields and field hospitals with rows of the dead and the dying mixed in with the survivors. _What a pitiful, fragile creature this is,_ he thinks. _What we all are._

Despite that, as he makes his way slowly back to the surface, he knows he carries something precious.

* * *

~end.


	5. Epilogue: sail you home

Title: Precious Things, epilogue  
Rating: M  
Author's Notes: Co-written with Kaltia; sequel to Embodied.

* * *

The unofficial rule in Edward Elric's ward is that nobody, not even the Colonel or his brother, goes into his room alone. Envy, though little talked about, is very much on everyone's mind. None of Roy's men have been able to find any trace of the vanished Sin, and the possibility that he might return unexpectedly is one that cannot be safely ignored. And although they are careful not to mention this to Edward, he knows better than to think Ed isn't thinking it too.

It's well known that Envy can resemble any person -- but there's no way he can impersonate _two_ people. Going two at once is the simplest check they can devise; even the nurses that tended to Edward in the day shift and the night shift go in pairs. Whether it's a question of military security, or for Edward's own peace of mind, is something of an academic question.

Roy feels somewhat rude, entering someone's room without knocking, but knocking would only leave him feeling foolish. So he pushes on in, Maria Ross at his back, and the sole occupant of the room looks up as they enter.

Fullmetal looks better, Roy observes, but that is entirely a relative term. He's sitting up in bed, with several pillows stacked up behind him for support, and his metal arm is holding a book open in his lap. His left arm is still taken up in a splint, and the bruises still mottle large portions of the skin not hidden by bandages, but they're turning greenish-yellow by now. A needle held still by tape runs under his skin under his armpit, under the splint bracing his upper left arm.

All in all, Roy thinks, he's rarely seen a more unhealthy-looking person, but sick is infinitely preferable to dead. He's awake and alert, his eyes pinning Roy sharply against the wall, flickering to take in Maria Ross before he pushes the book off his lap and sits a little straighter.

"Edward," he greets him, the awkward feeling overtaking him again. He feels ridiculous talking to Ed, the boy can't _hear_ him, but better to feel uncomfortable than to feel a coward, for avoiding the boy or talking over him like he wasn't there.

Ed frowns, eyebrows drawing down, and points with his automail to a stool against the far wall. "Bring that to here," he says, gesturing to the foot of the bed; surprised, Roy obeys. "Sit down. Face me. Speak slowly."

Bemused, Roy does; at least _he_ can understand when _Ed_ speaks, which was no guarantee. There's still some swelling in his jaw that hinders his ability to talk, but he's surprisingly clear, despite that. Roy wonders if the boy has been practicing, then wonders why he bothers to wonder.

"You look better," Roy says carefully, once he's settled. Ross has stayed near the door; tacit admission that her presence there is for Edward's benefit, not Roy's.

"I look like shit," Ed says bluntly, watching Roy's face intently. "But that's an improvement too."

"I came by to see how your new arm was doing." Roy gestures to Ed's right half. "I heard about it... yesterday."

Ed turns to follow Roy's gesture, and frowns at the metal arm attached to his shoulder. "It's not as good as Winry's," he says, "but given a choice between this and waiting a week before Winry can get out here with a spare, this is a hundred times better than nothing."

"Ah." Roy clears his throat, and shifts uncomfortably on the stool, until Ed looks back at him. "I can see that it would be."

Ed's frown returns, gaze sharpening on Roy until the older man feels practically skewered by it. "I know you didn't really come here to talk about automail," he says, leaning forward a bit. "What do you want, Colonel? If you came here to lecture me about going missing, I'm not in the mood to deal with it. Write me a thesis, I'll read it when I feel better."

"More like you'd burn it without a second look," Roy said with some irritation. "Contrary to what you think, Fullmetal, I _am_ capable of coming to visit a sick friend without an ulterior motive --"

Ed shakes his head, putting his hand out to stop, and Roy breaks off. "Slower," Ed says.

Roy sighs, and abandons the tirade. No point in putting this off. "Why did you leave?" he says simply. "You should have come back, or at least sent word, or allowed Alphonse to send word about what had happened to you two. For all we knew, you could have been dead."

"For all I knew," Ed mutters. Roy raised an eyebrow curiously, but Ed didn't elaborate.

"We had a right to know where you were."

"Why?" Ed snaps. "I was a mess even before E--nvy got hold of me, Colonel. There was no point to me coming back to the military. I would have been no use as your dog anyway."

"Not for the military," Roy says sharply. Ed blinks, a little startled. "Did you not stop to think that you could have gotten a medical discharge, and money to help with your expenses? Deafness alone would excuse you from active duty, even without... the rest of it."

Ed scowls, but Roy is not impressed by his display of temper. "But I deserved to know, not only as your commander, but as a friend. You have a lot of people here who care about you, Edward, and your brother. We were very worried."

"That's why I didn't let you know," Ed says softly, and averts his eyes. "I didn't want you to see..."

Roy blinks, processing this. The thought that Ed had motivations other than laziness, or forgetfulness, or the desire to spite Roy for the fun of it, hadn't really occurred to him before. Now, studying Ed's downcast, exhausted profile, it finally occur to him what a proud boy... _person_ Ed has always been, and what these injuries have done to him, beyond simple pain or inconvenience.

He wants to say something, but Ed isn't looking at him. Finally he gets up, and comes around to the side of the bed. He puts his hand under Ed's chin and lifts his face gently from its contemplation of the blankets, ignoring the small flinch he gets for his efforts, until Ed's eyes are meeting his face again.

"Did you think we would be disgusted?" he says slowly, watching Ed's reactions as closely as Ed is watching his mouth. Ed's expression tightens perceptibly as he processes the question, and Roy knows he's hit somewhere close. "Did you think we would turn on you after you'd been so badly hurt?"

"It has nothing to do with that!" Ed flares, and knocks Roy's hand away. It's not a gentle motion, with the heavy metal arm, and Roy's knuckles sting as he drops his hand, but at least Ed stays looking at him. "Maybe _I_ just didn't want you to see. Maybe, God forbid, there was a time when I actually gave a damn what you thought of me! Maybe I wanted you to keep in mind that other Edward, not _this_ one!"

He reaches out, spreading his hand towards Ed's left arm; truncated, broken, and splinted. "Injuries happen, Edward. These are no shame..."

Ed slants him a very angry, unfavorable look, but as long as Roy does not take the liberty of touch, offers no violence in return. "Do something for me, Colonel. Go home, get undressed, and sit down in a chair. If you're feeling especially brave, put a blindfold over your eyes. Tie your legs to the legs of the chair, and your right arm to the right arm. Then stay that way for a week."

Behind him, Ross makes a sound -- halfway between a gasp and a sob, but she doesn't interrupt and Roy doesn't turn to look at her. Roy starts to protest, but Ed overrides him. "Lieutenant Hawkeye can be there, to take care of you. She loves you, you know, and I don't doubt she'd be willing to give up whatever other life she has to devote herself to caring for your needs, twenty-four hours a day, because there's no-one else who cares that much. Do that for a week, Colonel, maybe two, and then come back and talk to me about _shame."_

The implications of this crowd into Roy's mind, all unbidden, and he can't suppress a humiliated burn in his face just imagining such a... It leaves him with nothing to say, and he struggles for several minutes with the unaccustomed sensation of being off-balance.

When he finally thinks he can speak again, Ed isn't even looking at him. Roy hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and touches Ed's shoulder, to get his attention. Ed turns to him with an irate 'now what?' glare, and Roy takes a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he says, and is somewhere between amused and offended by the shock on Edward's face. Edward puts a hand up in a stop-motion.

"Say that again?" he demands. "Did you just _apologize_ to me?"

Roy sighs. "Yes, I did. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to make light of... your burdens." Ed gives a skeptical snort, which Roy ignores as he presses on. "If anything, the contrary. It still amazes me that you have come through... what you have come through, and retained so much of yourself."

Ed frowns, looking like he doesn't know what to make of the praise, and looks away again, uncomfortably. Roy sighs again; this conversation is putting an unnatural strain on him, as well. He would much prefer, if he could, to go stand by the window and look out into the sleeting rain while he talks; it would be much easier to say these sorts of things then. To do it while looking into Edward's eyes is somehow too intimate, too hard.

"Edward," a new voice breaks in, and Ed looks up as Ross steps into his line of vision. Her eyes are suspiciously red, but only Roy can tell how her voice cracks. "That's not true, you know. Alphonse is not the only one who cares. If you boys are in trouble... you can come to us. We'll help you in any way we can."

"Lieutenant Ross..." Ed says, sounding astonished. He looks between the two of them, then away again, clearing his throat. "Colonel, could you please leave? I want to talk to the Lieutenant."

"Alone?" Roy says, startled, and has to repeat the question when Ed looks at him. "Are you sure you're all right with that?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I wasn't, would I?" Ed frowns, shifting on the bed. "'Sides, it's Ross."

Roy shrugs. "Very well." He heads for the door, after casting a doubtful look at Ross on his way out. She gives him an earnest look, and he tries not to feel unreasoningly irritated. Of course Ed would want to talk to her alone, they'd been quite close at one point. Much more so than Edward and him.

He stops at the door, looking back over at the bed and its small battered occupant. "Ed..." he says, surprising himself by using the nickname. "I will come back and visit you later, if you don't mind."

"Sure, you do that." Surprisingly, Ed favors him with half a smile, and metal fingers tap against the book he'd been reading when Roy entered. "Do me a favor and bring back some more books. I've already read through this one twice."

"I'll do that." He salutes Ed with a grave nod, and lets himself out.

He passes Alphonse in the waiting room, stretched out like a dead thing on the low couch and fast asleep, and finds himself smiling, a little bit sadly. He has a little time before he has to be anywhere; perhaps he'll spend it in the library.

Perhaps he'll spend the time brushing up on the regulations for disability pay, see if he can come up with something for Fullmetal. It simply wouldn't do for Edward to find out that he made that up on the spot.

* * *

Al wakes up slowly, the complaints of stiff muscles gradually filtering through the fog along with the cold of the waiting room, drafts creeping in every time a door opens or closes.

He sits up and rubs his hands over his face and his tongue over his teeth. Ew, gross. He'll ask Ross to fetch his toothbrush from his apartment along with a change of clothes, he thinks ruefully as he pulls at his rumpled jeans. He went home three days ago - long enough to change his clothing, but that was it, and he only did that much because Roy flat-out i_ordered_/i him to do so.

Before he does anything else, he unfolds cramped legs - they really should design new waiting room couches; they're hell to sleep on, especially for eight nights in a row - and totters out towards his brother's ward. Ed's room lies at the end of a long corridor, guarded at all times by two men. Havoc and Farman are on duty at that particular moment; he nods to them and peers through the window. He can just make out Ross, talking to Ed, and automatically scans the room for her companion. A stab of sharp panic sweeps through him when he can't see anyone - doesn't she know nobody's supposed to be in there alone? - but it slowly disappears as he watches Ed, casually conversing with her. The panic is replaced by a tiny needle of hurt - his brother won't talk to _him_ on his own - but he quashes it, reminding himself sternly that Ed is doing much, much better now, and it's only a matter of time before he stops flinching every time he catches sight of Al.

He rubs at his face again - there's sleep dust in his eyes, he rubs it out and wipes his hands on his jeans - before heading over to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. He looks terrible, he thinks, catching sight of himself in a mirror; he looks like someone who has spent the majority of the last week in the hospital, living on a mixture of low-key terror, guilt, and pain.

Not that Ed's doing much better, he thinks bitterly as he rubs his face dry with the sleeve of his sweater. He hasn't seen Ed much since his brother was bought to the hospital; his own choice, not because anybody tried to prevent him. His presence makes Ed jumpy, nervous and afraid, and that in turn makes Al want to cuddle him, hold him, and attempt to soothe him. It's a vicious cycle, doing neither of them any good.

He can't help but remember the trip back from the underground city, to the hospital. Hawkeye went first, with a few men, then Roy, Ed in his arms, some more men flanking him. Al had bought up the rear, with Havoc and Farman to keep him company, and it had been a good thing they did; he'd been unable to keep his eyes off his brother, so small and pale in Roy's arms, head lolled against the older man's shoulder but golden eyes open a slit, i_watching_/i him mistrustfully. The vague fear there had turned Al's stomach back then, and the memory of it did so even now. He pushed himself away from the sink and shouldered open the door, digging in his pocket for some loose change and eyeing the entrance to the cafeteria, visible from the waiting room.

Half-way there, the door to the wards opens and Ross steps into the waiting room, closing it behind her. "Alphonse," she says with a smile. "I was looking for you."

"I was just, uh - is it Niisan?"

"He wants to speak with you. Go ahead, there's a nurse waiting for you in order to begin her check up." Ross unfolds her umbrella - she didn't take it into Ed's room, recognising that he might have a phobia of points, and this particular umbrella is capped with a two-inch spike - and then pulls on her gloves. This done, she looks up. "Still here?"

Al clenches his fists by his side and glares down at his feet. "What do I say?" he asks, helplessly. "He's afraid of me, I don't want to do that to him - "

"Just go," Ross interrupts, raising her eyebrows. "The two of you need one another. Go on, Alphonse."

The nurse is waiting outside Ed's room, a pretty young black woman. Havoc is busy attempting to flirt with her, and thus it's Farman who first notices Al. "Good morning again, Al," he says mildly.

"You call this 'guarding'?" Al snaps at Jean, not dignifying Farman with a response. The nurse frowns and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, gripping the trolley of various medical implements she has with her by one hand, and Havoc, too, has the grace to look embarrassed. Al glares at him as he follows the nurse inside, letting the door close behind him, but not quickly enough to hide Havoc's muttered, "Someone didn't get enough sleep last night."

His brother steals his attention and prevents him from turning on Jean, luckily enough. While the nurse goes to work on Ed's splinted left arm, Al hovers by the door until Ed glances up, and by now is accustomed to the way Ed's eyes widen slightly before he forces himself to relax. "Al," Ed says softly, speech clearer than it has been for over a year. "Come here." He closes the book in his lap and gestures to the stool beside his bed, and Al takes it cautiously. Ed frowns at him, then reaches out to tug on his hair.

"Ow! Niisan - "

"You need a haircut," Ed says with a scowl, then lowers the automail to gently cup Al's jaw. Al can do nothing but blink at him, surprised. "And a shave. Have you been staying here this entire time?"

"Yeah," Al mutters. "In the waiting room."

"No wonder you look like you've been trampled by a herd of wild horses," Ed remarks lightly, and despite himself, Al's mouth twitches in a smile. "I've seen you maybe five times since I got here, Al," his brother adds. "What have you been doing?"

"Nothing." Al glances down at his hands, stilled on his lap, and then looks up sharply, opening his mouth to continue - and stops there.

Startled by the sudden movement, Ed jerked his hand away as though contact with Alphonse physically hurt him. His eyes are wide, and his chest is rising and falling rapidly with his breathing. Al's hands curl into fists, but he forces himself to smile soothingly and stand slowly, keeping each motion smooth and unthreatening. "I'll come back later," he says gently, seeing that the nurse is about done, and Ed blinks up at him.

"Al," he says, thickly. "I'm sorry - "

"It's fine." Al cuts him off, and smiles at him. "Don't worry about it. I'll be back later, Niisan, okay?"

Ed looks for half a second as though he is going to protest, to ask Al to stay, but then he lets his head drop and says, "Sure. See you."

* * *

He leaves -- for a while. It doesn't seem fair to make Ross run his errands when he's perfectly capable of walking himself over to the apartment. The dreary weather wavers back and forth between sleet and drizzle, and the streets are icy and treacherous.

Al changes clothes, and packs another change into a small bag, along with a toothbrush. After puttering around for a while, he goes ahead and packs another change of clothes for Ed. His brother will probably appreciate having something other than hospital gowns to wear.

It's already growing dark by the time he heads back to the hospital, winter sun and overcast sky conspiring to bring early twilight. Al detours through the market on the way back; not entirely sure why, or what he's looking for, since most of the stores have closed up and most of the rest don't have much in the way of wares.

He stops by a grocery stall, at the end of the row, and after some hesitation, buys the last of their raisins. It's habit, more than anything; whenever he goes out shopping, no matter what for, he always tried to bring back something good to eat for Ed. The familiar routine makes him feel a little better, and he hopes that the familiarity will do something for Ed too.

When he at last returns to the hospital, lugging his bag, he glances in through the window of Ed's room and has to laugh, surprised momentarily out of his glum funk. Ed must have commandeered someone to play errand boy for him, because Ed is practically hidden behind stacks of books. Even as Al watches, Ed flips the book in his lap closed, pushes it off to the side, and reaches for the next one off the top of the stack on the table.

Even that laugh doesn't last, though, and Al leans back against the wall, out of sight as the window, as a painful knot closes in his throat. No wonder Ed is going through the books so voraciously; he hasn't been able to read a word since he was locked in a lightless, silent prison almost a year ago.

Over the last few months Al watched helplessly as his brother seemed to drift farther and farther away from the real world, slowly eaten away by a stupefying, soul-consuming boredom. He only really seeming to wake up in Al's presence, spending longer and longer hours in a death-like sleep. It scared Al, enough that he'd wholeheartedly approved of the plan to move Ed to Central with him... right into the line of fire.

It was him, all that hell Ed had gone through for him, and what had he given his brother in return? No matter how hard he tried, how hard he studied and experimented, he'd never been able to find a way to help his brother. Envy, that fucking bastard _Envy,_ has been more use to Ed than he has. It was no wonder... it was no wonder...

_Stop that,_ he berates himself silently. However it happened -- whatever else happened -- Ed's sight has been restored to him, and from now on, things will only get better. From now on, they can make some _real_ progress.

_And that's a good thing, dammit. So stop feeling sorry for yourself._

* * *

He waits for the next nurse to go in; one of the senior staff, this time, snub-nosed and gray-streaked hair. And maybe it's wishful thinking, but he thinks Ed looks like he's been waiting for him; when Al and the nurse enter, he sticks a strip of bandage in his book to mark his place, and pushes it aside.

Al hangs around, making nervous small talk that Ed doesn't even seem to pay attention to, until the nurse is done, and his patience is rewarded when Ed asks him to stay behind. Cheered, Al comes to settle down on the stool by the bed; sneaking a look out the window to make sure the coast his clear, he opens up his bag and presents Ed with his prize.

"Ooh, what'd you bring me?" Ed's face lights up as he reaches for the package. There's an awkward moment, where he's fumbling one-handed with the paper, when Al can't decide whether to offer help or not; he doesn't want to make any more sudden moves, though, shatter the momentary peace, so he keeps his hands in his lap as Ed wrestles the package open and pops a few of the fruits into his mouth.

Ed smiles, and that's enough to brighten Al's mood up in spite of everything. "Thanks, Al," he says. "I dunno how they expect me to get any better on this crap hospital food."

Al smiles in return. "Well, Niisan," he begins. "It would help if you'd just drink your milk..."

Ed interrupts with a heartfelt groan, and puts up a hand to stop Al from speaking. "Don't start," he warns him. "That's not going to make a difference. What'll make a difference is when I get my automail back, so I can get out of bed and start moving. Even the nurses say so."

Al frowns; the doctor also said that Ed shouldn't even consider getting out of bed for at least another month, until his ribs and collarbone have healed. Well, maybe the nurses know something the doctors don't. "I heard from Winry," he says, waiting for Ed's attention again. "She's bought her tickets, and she'll be arriving here Tuesday of next week. She said she'd be sooner, but she has to wait for some parts to come in."

Ed grimaces. "Well, it's just as well," he mutters. "When she sees what I've done to her precious automail, she'll probably break everyone bone in my body."

The last of Al's humor vanishes; he sits up straight, abruptly, and Ed jumps a little, startled. "That's not funny," Al says, upset.

He can't help it; he climbs to his feet, and takes a few steps to the end of the bed; he can't seem to settle his emotions. He crosses his arms over his chest, hugging himself, trying to ground himself.

"Al," Ed says, quietly, and Al turns to face him, feeling -- to his shame -- a stinging in his eyes.

"Winry wouldn't do that, Niisan," Al says. "She wouldn't really hurt you."

"I -- I know that," Ed says, and this time he's the one to look away. He tries to shrug casually, but it doesn't work terribly well when the motion makes him wince.

"Yeah." The stinging in his eyes doesn't really go away, but that's fine, since Ed isn't looking. "Sure you do."

He takes a deep breath, and comes to sit again -- not on the stool, but on the edge of the bed, beside his brother. Ed's eyes widen, somewhat, and he tracks Al's progress, but he doesn't seem to be panicked, so Al gathers his courage and pushes forward.

"Niisan," Al asks, hesitantly, and he makes a motion to take Ed's hand on the cover, before stopping short. "I -- I'm sorry to ask, but the doctors weren't sure... and when I found the cave, I didn't see you right away, so I don't know what Envy was doing. Was he -- did he..."

"Just come out with it, Al," Ed says bluntly. "He did a damn lot of things, I don't feel like playing twenty questions about it."

Even if Ed says that, Al can't just say the word like that; instead, obliquely, he says, "I heard you screaming." He doesn't meet Ed's eyes, although he knows his brother can see him. "And when I found you, your clothes were torn."

Ed's eyes narrow, his expression tightening, and he slowly pulls his hand back towards him. "No," he says. "He didn't. It was next on his list, but I guess he ran out of time before I did."

"Oh." Dizzying relief surges through Al, momentarily swamping all the other turbulent emotions. No matter what other poison Envy has managed to spread between them, at least that one thing they shared has remained untainted. He gives his brother a blinding smile, and takes hold of his metal hand, tugging it towards him. "Thank God."

"God didn't have much to do with it," Ed corrects him meticulously, and for a moment he thaws a little, and gives Al a little smile. "Thanks, Al. You have no idea how much."

For a moment, just a moment, Al is happy again. But Ed's next words bring it all crashing down. "I don't think I can ever pay you back for what you've done for me," he continues. "You and Mustang both, but you... Al... I... I know it's been a real pain, over the last year, having to take care of me... but that's all over now."

Al stares at his brother, a wave of hurt surging around his ears. "Over?" he demands, more sharply than he'd intended. "What do you mean, _over?"_

Ed gives him a half-smile, and another one of those almost-shrugs, pulling his hand out of Al's as he does so. "I mean I'll be okay from now on," he says. "I've been working hard on this -- reading lips -- and I can read and write notes, if I have to. Once I get my automail, I can get myself around, no problem. I won't need your help any more."

Al sits there frozen, trying to find something to say, as Ed speaks -- obviously with a rehearsed speech, judging from the flat look on his face as he goes on. "I'll be in the hospital for a while longer," he says, "but after that, maybe Ross can help me find a place to stay in the city. It's been a while, but I'm brushing up on alchemy, so I can go on with the research to try and fix the rest of my body -- you'll let me have your notes, right? I'll --"

"What are you talking about?" Al interrupts. "Moving out? Researching -- by yourself? You can't just -- you can't."

"I _can_ do it," Ed says forcefully. "I -- I've spent too much time already, depending on others. It's more than time for me to stand on my own again."

"You still need me," Al counters. "Even if you have your eyes back, you still aren't well! Why won't you let me help?"

Ed shoots him a cold look. "Maybe you shouldn't be telling me what I need," he snaps. "I'm not some kind of baby, who needs his little brother to -- there's no reason it has to be you who takes care of me, Al --"

"_I_ still need _you,"_ Al says, the words crowding out of his throat before he can stop it, and he wishes he could take them back, especially as Ed's face goes still with shock.

"Al --?" Ed breaks off, sounding confused. "But you aren't -- you shouldn't --"

Al raises a hand to touch his brother's face; and there's the flinch, small and involuntary as always, and it hurts, just as always. He doesn't try to hide it, this time, and his eyes prickle as he lets his hand fall.

"It feels like you're punishing me, Niisan," Al says, and he hates himself for the tears in his voice, for the sniffle he can't stop.

"I'm not," Ed whispers. "I swear I'm not. It's not you, Al, you know it."

"I -- I know," Al agrees, and then bursts out, " -- but it's how I _feel,_ all the same! You're shutting me out, Niisan! You won't even let me try to help you!"

"It wasn't me!" Al says raggedly, and he wonders distantly how hard it is for Ed to read his lips, when he can feel his face trying to twist with emotion. "I didn't do it, Niisan! I didn't do those things to you! I didn't hurt you -- I'd never hurt you, never! What can I possibly do to make you _trust_ me again?"

* * *

Ed stares at his brother, and feels a wringing stab in his gut at the way Al scrubs at his eyes, tries to gulp back tears. He needs to do something, to say something. This isn't fair to Al; this isn't _right._ This isn't Al's fault.

It's not his fault that Envy wanted to break his mind as much as he broke his bones. It's not his fault that the first face Ed saw when he opened his eyes -- the face he associated with all the torment and pain -- was the one Envy stole from Al. But he can't _help_ it; no matter how much he knows intellectually that this is his brother, Al, he can't suppress the conditioned flinch.

He can't even fully suppress the little voice that asks him, every time somebody comes near, _how do you _know _that _this _isn't Envy? _There's no worse enemy for your peace of mind than one who can take on any form, any face. He _has_ noticed that everyone goes about in pairs, and though he won't comment on it if they don't, it's probably all that safeguards his sanity.

Al's question still rings in his mind. _What can I do to make you trust me?_ How is he supposed to explain that there's nothing Al _can_ do, that it's not a problem with Al, it's a problem with himself?

These eyes didn't come without a price, Ed realizes bitterly. If he had never seen Envy's face, pretending to be Al, then he wouldn't have this fear, this flinch. If he had never... seen Al's face, he wouldn't have this mistrust.

He can't go on like this. It's not fair to Al, it's not fair to himself... and if he's honest, beyond the bravado and optimism, he doesn't think he can do this without Al. Without that trust.

_What can I do..._

He closes his eyes.

It's hard. It's harder than he thought it would be, and he has to suppress a moment of panic. Since his sight was restored, he's hardly taken a second to blink; hardly closed his eyes except to fall immediately asleep. It's such a small difference, between eyes-opened and eyes-closed; between the world of light and company and healing, and the black and silent void.

In a moment, he's helpless again; cut off from the world, unable to see or hear the world, unable to react, to defend himself.

_But I am not alone._

He takes a long, slow breath, to quell the panic; it's slow, but scent- and touch-memory is beginning to kick in. He rebuilds the world around him the way he learned to before, through memory and guess and touch. There's the room, not an infinite void; there's the bed, soft and warm underneath it. There's the whiff of blood and sharp cleansers, the hospital-smell.

There's his brother, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him.

And it's not hard at all to reach out to him, to that familiar, comforting presence. He finds Al's shoulder with his hand, and slowly trails his fingers down Al's arm until he can clasp their hands together.

Al moves, suddenly, and there's no flinch, there's no fear. Suddenly, his brother's arms are around him, hugging tight, and Ed rests his forehead against his brother's shoulder, feeling something tight and knotted inside him finally come undone.

This is right. This is as it should be. This is his brother, who loves him. There's no way, no possible way for Envy to counterfeit this; the feel of his brother's body, hard and soft in all the proper places, the subtle movements of his muscles as he hugs him, the scent rising from his skin.

Al takes a deep breath, his chest expanding and his arms tightening around Ed, and he's saying something, he must be talking a mile a minute, with the way his breath puffs and spills against Ed's skin. Ed can't straighten his head out enough to try and work it out; but he doesn't have to, not right now.

For the first time, resting in his brother's arms, Ed dares to let himself hope.

* * *

_if it seems _

_I'm floating in the darkness_

_well I can't believe _

_I'd keep you from flying_

_and I would cry a thousand more_

_if that's what it takes _

_to sail you home_

_sail you home_

* * *

~end.


End file.
